













J ^ ^ ^ ^ V . ^ ^ >-/ ^ ^ ^-P^" c 0 - 





0 o V '' 


K^ SJ 

ry <* 

^ 0 O V '*‘ ^0 ^ 

^O 0^ t ° ^ 


0 v\V ^ a \ \ '^ *'0 

V>^\''», •> 

' V -= 5, -. .x^ » 

^ C^S .. 


tl <t 




A V 


-i- .'v 

\ C\J 


'*' \V ^ 

o O ^ ^r ^ 

.., K -0 " P?’ 8 , X 

'f 53 ■^. ^ 









' %' 


^ \ 


r 


c'b 


^ Kl ^ 


\\ 


I R 







\»^0 r^ . 0 '^ 

k^ ^ ^ .'>W 



y y ^ ■ ri' t, 

'' j A ^ ' 

^ ^ A \ I 1 fl 

^ •» '^ ' ® 4- O. 

^ a\ 

^J- ^ - 


0 4Jl k 


0 




> x^ 


/■ 



^ f> , 

^ _ 55 



x0°^. 



tf 1 ' 







^ J s'* 

^ ^ ^ Jj- <J ^ 



r/^ ^ 

.>^ ^0-’ 



^y^ V 

o' 


i' 


^ y Vy^"* ft 


4 « 


V*,so’' x^' ,.„ 



''■P, S 



'' 

'• xX’ 

' ,X'^' 




^ *> 





(P *' c-^N- . -' 


<» 


^ o'^ r ^ 





vO o. 

A 


^ 8 1 \ 






s "' /\ O ^ 0 V 

v«' ‘ * % 

- '^O o'^ 

^/. O S 0 ^ 

^ C‘ \* 

. r 

” * 

</^ A > CQ 



V * 0 







rv N r- ^ * <r 

✓ 

ft ^ I 


I \ 



r> ''* ■ tS" '£9 ’ -4 % 

’> N 0 ^ * 8 1 A " ' 

^ ^ " 0 ,. > OV , S " ^ 

^ ^3 5l -. 

= ^ V 



,0 c 


A ° 

O ■* 0 ^ \ ,0’ ^ ’I 





« O 



0 0 




0 * 








THE 

BOHEMIANS 


IN THE 


FIFTEENTH CENTUKY. 

/ 

TBANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF HENRI GUENOT, 

IT ' 


Bt MRS. J. SADLIBR. 


5 



o 



N E W Y O R K : 

D. «& J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET : ! 

BOSTON:— 19 HIGH STREET, 

MONTBEAI. : — COB. NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER STS. 


1867. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., \ 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 


\ 


stereotyped by VINCENT DILL, 

95 & 27 New Chambers St, N. Y. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

A Fair in the Middle Ages, 5 

II. 

A Mother’s Grief, IG 

III. 

The Wanderers, 26 

IV. 

Twelve Years After, 37 

Y. 

Arrival of the Tribe, . . . . ' . . .43 

VI. 

A Domestic Scene, 50 

VII. 

The Sick Woman, 68 

VHL 

The Consoling Angel, 66 

IX. 

The Confession, 75 

X. 

The March, 84 


XI. 

Disappearance, 100 

XIL 

The Potion, 109 

XIII. 

On Board the Cartel, 116 

XTV. 

In the Euins, . . 126 

XV. 

Return to Paris, ........ 138 

XYI. 

At Sea, 145 

xvn. 

New Trials, 

xyni. 

The Sentence, 

'XIX. 

Under the Family Roof, 169 

XX. ' , V 

After Darkness, Light, 


THE BOHEMIANS IN THE 
FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


I. 


A FAIR IN THE MIDDLE AGES. 

Who has not heard of the famous fairs of Caen, of 
Beaucaire, of Guibray, of Sinigaglia, of Leipsic, and 
many others, whose privilege it is to bring together 
in one single mart the commerce and the produc- 
tions of divers countries ? 

Now these meetings of merchants, so much talked 
of at the present time, pale before a fair of the middle 
ages, famous on other accounts, and which, although 
not sufficiently known in our days, were immensely 
popular at that time. Neither Europe, Africa, nor 
Asia has anything comparable. This fair was called 
the landit^ from a Latin word which signifies ap- 
pointed day, or place. 

The landit was held on the vast plain that extends 
from La Chapelle, then a mere village, and St. Denis, 
to the very gates of Paris. There, during the hot 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


summer months, there suddenly arose, as it were by 
magic, a city of boards and canvas. It had its streets, 
its squares, its crossings, its fountains ; a numerous 
foreign population came to tarry some days in that 
artificial city, fated to disappear as quickly as it had 
been constructed. 

For houses it had vast stores, kept by merchants 
flocking thither from all parts of France, from the ex- 
tremities of Europe, from the far off* countries of the 
East, and even from Africa, ^ 

The renown of this fair, so ancient that chroniclers 
make it date from the time of King Dagobert, had 
crossed mountains and seas : it was talked of in every 
country of the world. 

It is a curious fact that in those ages reputed as 
barbarous by a certain school, the intercourse be- 
tween the different peoples was little less frequent 
than it is to day between France and Algiers. 
Assuredly people would be astonished in our time, 
when communication is, nevertheless, so prompt and 
so easy, to see arriving in our great marts merchants 
from Central Africa, from Turkey, from Syria. But 
in the fifteenth century, and for long after, a crowd 
of merchants undertook fearful voyages, through 
countries without roads and infested by brigands. 
They usually went in caravans, armed like warrior 
men, and making use of camels to transport their 
merchandise to its destination. 

The Crusaders had developed this adventurous 
spirit. For many ages they had established constant 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. Y 

intercourse between the East and the West, and the 
Mussulman invasion of Asia had not yet totally 
hindered commercial relations. Moreover, the dis- 
covery of America had not opened to the current of 
human activity the vast outlets ofdhe New World. 

Accordingly, at the beginning of April in the year 
1427, although the fair of the landit had already lost 
considerable of its importance, the plain of St. Denis 
still presented a spectacle singularly varied and fidl 
of incredible animation. The village of La Chapelle 
disappeared amid a forest of booths, fashioned in all 
shapes, tents and pavilions striped with a thousand 
colors. The plain and the houses swarmed with 
people. A mighty hum arose from the bosom of that 
human hive, echoing afar off. 

Merchants of all nations mingled there and jostled 
each other : Poles were seen in their lambskin cap ; 
Greeks, with the national barrad ; Syrians, their head 
wrapped in the turban ; Armenians, wearing a sort of 
mitre ; Africans, with no other clothing than the tra- 
ditional breeches. Here and there were stretched at 
their ease the camels and mules whose back had trans- 
ported the objects of traffic. 

The rarest products of industry and art were 
there found together : thick furs from the Caucasus, 
transparent gauzes from Asia, exquisite perfumes 
from Arabia, and costly ornaments: in a word, all 
that comfort or luxury could require. 

Elsewhere might be seen displayed vast voleries 
filled with strange birds of radiant plumage, of divers 


8 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


notes; then cages strongly grated containing those 
wild beasts but little seenno w-a-days save in their native 
forests or the menageries of our cities. Lions, tigers 
frightened the multitude by their roaring ; bears, 
wolves, and some elephants also attracted the eye. 

The day on which our story opens was one of the 
warmest of the year. The water of the fountains 
placed at every crossing, and shooting up \o fall 
down in rain, succeeded neither in laying the dust, 
nor in tempering the sun’s heat. So, many of the 
curious took refuge as they could under the tents 
erected before the booths and pavilions, or more still 
under the awnings in front of the theatres erected 
on the fair-green. 

Amongst these theatres, that of the clerks of the 
Basoche drew the greatest number of spectators. It 
had been established near the village of La Chapelle. 
On a high platform paraded the King of the Basoche, 
bedizened with finery, and parodying sovereignty 
even in its attributes and prerogatives : charged 
with the empire of fools, he wore the royal head- 
gear ; his chancellors had the cap and gown of 
magistrates ; a whole retinue of officers, bedubbed 
generals, high chancellors, high stewards, secretaries, 
bailiffs, criers, ushers, escorted their chief His silver 
shields had for arms three ink-horns in a field azure 
crested with helmets. 

The scenes represented on this burlesque stage 
were comedies, grotesque farces called sottises, that 
is to say, follies, or mad pranks. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


9 


But the brethren of the Passion, the seniors of the 
clerks of the Basoche, continued to draw the largest 
concourse. On their stage were played the Mys- 
teries, a simple representation of religious scenes 
from the Oid and ITew Testament. The year in 
question, the brethren gave scarcely anything but the 
famous Mystery of the holy Passion of Our Lord 
Jesus Christy an immense drama, a type of the kind, 
counting no less than thirty thousand verses. 

The stage whereon it was represented, a gigantic 
construction of beams and planks, overlooked the 
whole landit. Under its vast awning intended to 
shelter the spectators from the scorching heat of the 
sun, an enormous multitude were crowded together. 
This, as chronicles relate, was the arrangement of 
the theatre. The stage was closed by a canvas, 
which did not rise, but was drawn aside, like the 
curtains of a recess. 

This curtain removed, there was seen at the 
farther end of the stage several scaffoldings, one over 
the other, like those used in the construction of an 
edifice. The highest represented paradise, others 
the earth, Herod’s palace, Pilate’s pretorium. On 
the first floor appeared the dwellings of Our Lady’s 
relatives, her oratory, and the crib with t!ie oxen. 
In front, to the left of the spectators, curtains formed 
a species of niche, into which the actors went when 
they were to play a part intended to be concealed 
from the spectators, such, for instance, as the decol- 
lation of St. John the Baptist. Opposite that niche, 


10 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


to the right, hell was figured by a dragon’s mouth, 
which opened and closed as often as one or more 
devils wanted to make their entrance or their exit on 
the stage. Behind that niche and that mouth, instead 
of a green-room, steps were raised on which the 
actors sat when their parts were ended. 

It is easy to understand that the immense drama 
of the Passion was too long to be represented all at 
once. Hence, it had been divided into four days. 
At the moment when we introduce the reader to 
the fair-green of the landit, and conduct him to the 
theatre of the brethren of the Passion, the fourth 
day was commencing. That last part of the great 
Mystery, full of life, of vigor, and to some extent of 
local coloring, employed five hundred actors. The 
spectators, standing on tiptoe, throbbing with inde- 
scribable emotion, heard and watched with religious 
attention that drama so tragical and so grand, in- 
spired by the sufferings of a God. 

It was the hour when Judas repenting gave back 
to the Jews the money he had received from them 
as the price of treachery. Notwithstanding that 
eloquent asseveration of the Just One’s innocence, 
Pilate had Jesus conducted to the pretorium. At 
sight of the Lord, the soldiers lowered their lances, 
and the interrogation opened. Then appeared for 
the prisoner all those who had been cured by the 
Saviour. Pilate himself strove to convince the 
enemies of Jesus of his innocence, but the Jews in- 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


11 


sisted that he should be conducted before Herod the 
Idumean. 

On seeing his master pass, Judas, torn with re- 
morse, invoked hell. Dame Despair immediately ap- 
peared to him, and with horrible threats and gestures 
offered him in a wild chaunt all sorts of instruments 
for making away with himself. Last of all she pre- 
sented a halt er ; Judas did not wait to be asked 
twice, he took the rope and hung himself. Dame 
Despair filled the office of executioner ; with the help 
of the other devils, she carried him off to hell, where 
Dante, completing with a stroke of his genius that 
vigorous picture, shows him to us between the teeth 
of Satan, who eternally chews in his fiery mouth the 
greatest of sinners. 

The assembly, held in suspense during all this 
scene, breathed again after the chastisement of the 
perfidious disciple, and were preparing to direct 
their attention to the actors and the sequel of the 
drama when a woman’s piercing cry was heard ; 
it proceeded from the midst of the crowd, and made 
every heart thrill. All eyes were turned towards 
the place whence the cry had arisen several times in 
succession. A stout, youthful-looking woman, clothed 
like the common people, made her way through the 
crowd, and began to wander around the theatre, 
crying in a tone of despair : 

“ Where is the child ? My God ! where is the 
child ?” 


12 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ What aileth thee ?” demanded a burgher of St. 
Denis, who had come to see the Mystery. 

“ The child ! the child !” she went on screaming, 
“ I don’t see it anywhere !” 

“ What child dost thou mean ?” asked the com- 
passionate burgher. 

“ I had with me, there in the crowd, a little girl, 
who has suddenly disappeared.” 

“ Compose yourself ; she is not lost ” 

“Help me, good master, to seek her, I conjure 
thee !” 

“ Most willingly ; but be calm and don’t be fright- 
ened without cause.” 

“ Ah ! if I find her not what shall become of me 1” 

A crowd gathered round the young woman, whose 
grief was so overpowering, so affecting, and the 
strangest comments began already to be made. The 
burgher resumed : 

“ Tell us what the child was like ; perchance we 
may then be able to lend some assistance. In the 
first place what is her name ?” 

“ Jeanne Belval.” 

“ Her age ?” 

“ Five years. She lives in La Chapelle.” 

“ Is she your daughter ?” 

“Ho; I am only her nurse.” 

“ How was she attired ?” 

“ She wore a small hat with a red plume, a black 
silk dress and mantilla. She is small in size, her 
features fine and delicate, slightly tinged with the 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


13 


hues of the rose and the carnation ; she has the 
prettiest dark eyes, and her hair, of a chesmit color, 
falls in ringlets on her shoulders.” 

“Enough,” cried several of her compassionate 
hearers, amongst whom were some women; “make 
yourself easy, the child shall be found ; we shall go 
with you in search of her.” 

Speaking thus, they scattered in various directions, 
and the nurse resumed her search in the neighbor- 
hood of the large theatre. Her search remaining 
fruitless, she extended it farther. But in vain did she 
search with her eye the groups, the stalls, the shops, 
Jeanne appeared not, and the unfortunate woman 
cried out sobbing : 

“My God ! how shall I present myself before the 
child’s mother, who had so warned me to watch over 
the precious charge she entrusted to me I” 

Having gone over the fair-green in all directions, 
she met the man who had already interested himself 
in her trouble. He had conscientiously fulfilled his 
promise, and had neglected nothing to discover the 
lost child. He appeared disappointed, and the per- 
spiration was running down his face. 

“ Well !” asked the nurse, “ have you succeeded in 
obtaining any information ?” 

“ Ho, nothing, absolutely nothing.” 

“ My misfortune is at its height, there is no cure for 
it. What am I to do now 

“ Will you follow the advice I am going to give 
you?” 


14 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Ah ! speak !” 

“ Return to the child’s parents, whilst I continue 
the search hereabouts.” 

“ I dare not do it.” 

But you must.” 

“ I can never bring myself to be the messenger of 
such tidings,” replied the unhappy woman, wringing 
her hands convulsively. 

“ Take courage !” said the burgher. 

What good will courage do me ?” 

“Did you not tell me that the child was intelli- 
gent ?” 

“ So much so that she was the idol of her father, 
mother, and all that knew her.” 

“ If that be so you may make your mind easy.” 

“ Her loss will leave the whole family miserable.” 

“ Jeanne is not lost; I will answer for it.” 

“Heaven grant it be so. But what makes you 
think so ?” 

“ I am sure she will find her way back to La Cha- 
pelle. Whilst you are grieving here, she is, doubtless, 
in the arms of her parents.” 

“ I never thought of that, and, after all, it may be 
as you say.” 

“ Run home quick, then, and see how the matter 
stands.” 

Hope suddenly sprang up again in the nurse’s mind. 
She imme liately quitted the fair- green, and hastily 
bent her steps towards the village of La Chapelle. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


15 


The Belval mansion, the largest in the place, inclosed 
a square court within its four wings. 

Approaching the house, the nurse relaxed her pace. 
The idea occurred to her that hope had deceived her, 
and that Jeanne had not returned. But driving 
away such a grievous thought, she resumed her 
march, and resolutely entered the house by the great 
door. In a few minutes she had crossed the court, 
mounted the ‘ steps, and pushed in the door of the 
room where she was most likely to find the child’s 
mother. 



16 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


IL 

A mother’s grief. 

Madam Belval, a woman of about thirty years, was 
alone when the nurse arrived. Having become un- 
easy at the prolonged absence of her child, she now 
and then cast an anxious glance through the window 
which opened on the courtyard. 

“Annette,” said she quickly, on seeing the nurse, 
“ your walk has been too long 

But not perceiving her daughter, she rose abruptly, 
and said : 

“ Where is Jeanne ?” 

Annette, who had counted on finding the child at 
home before her, was struck dumb with grief and 
terror. Madame Belval, beside herself, repeated the 
question, adding — 

“ Answer me, what have you done with my daugh- 
ter ? Why did you not bring her back ?” 

“ Forgive me. Madam,” murmured the nurse, falling 
on her knees, “ I am very unhappy.” 

Mortal anguish was stamped on the pale face of 
the poor mother ; she staggered, and was seized with 
a nervous tremor which obliged her to sit down again. 
Her oppressed bosom heaved tumultuously, and she 
remained a moment speecliless. Then, mustering all 
the strength she could command, she seized Annette’s 
arm, and asked her in a faint voice : 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 17 

“In Heaven’s name, speak; where have you left 
Jeanne ?” 

“ Alas ! the child went away from me,” sobbed the 
nurse in deep affliction. 

“ In what place ?” 

“ Before the theatre of the Brothers of the Passion.” 

“ And you did not look for her ? and you had the 
heart to return without her ? Do you not under- 
stand how wrong this negligence is ?” 

These words were uttered with a violence and 
rapidity that frightened Annette, so different were 
they from Madam Belval’s usual mildness. Making 
an effort then to speak, she related every particular 
of what had passed, what search had been made, 
and with what little success. Then she strove to 
exculpate herself. 

“ Cease to make vain excuses,” interrupted Madam 
Belval ; “ besides being unseasonable, they are only 
wasting precious time.” 

The nurse hung her head in silence. The lady 
went on : “Arise, and let us go immediately.” 

“ Where do you want to go, Madam ?” 

“ Can you ask ?” 

“ I have done all that any one could do. It is no 
use searching any more.” 

“ You did not search with a mother’s heart,” an- 
swered Madam Belval. “Follow me to the landit.” 

Annette rose without replying, and stood ready to 
accompany the unfortunate mother, who rushed like 
a mad woman from the house. The two women rap- 


18 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


idly traversed the streets of the village, and reached 
the fair-green. Not till then did Madam Belval ap- 
pear to recover a little self-possession ; she searched 
every group with her piercing eye, questioned the 
passers-by and the merchants, examined minutely the 
stalls and shops into which she went repeatedly to 
see whether Jeanne was there. Most of those she 
questioned answered her kindly ; but some shrugged 
their shoulders, and muttered between their teeth : 
“ Has the woman lost her senses ? How could she 
think that in this immense crowd, changing every 
hour, people noticed her daughter ?” 

Madam Belval passed a portion of the day in this 
fruitless search. She traversed the field with feverish 
impatience, and, according as time wore on, lier heart 
was rent the more ; the gloom of despair darkened 
her face ; her panting breath, her parched throat, the 
sweat that bathed her forehead, attested the torments 
she endured. At last she fell down exhausted and 
half fainting at the foot of a tree, and these sorrpw- 
ful words escaped from her colorless lips : 

“It is all over now; I shall never see my darling 
Jeanne again !” 

Then, covering her face with her trembling hands, 
she burst into sobs and inarticulate cries. Some 
charitable souls stopped near the unhappy mother, 
and, after inquiring the cause of her poignant sorrow, 
went their way in silence. 

The night was beginning to wrap the spacious field 
of the landit in its transparent veil ; the stars already 


TUE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


19 


gemmed the sky; thousands of torches were lit in 
front of the shops and along the streets marked on 
the plain. Madam Belval, knowing that a longer 
search would be only time lost, rose painfully with 
Annette’s assistance. 

“ Let us retrace our steps,” said she. 

As the nurse looked around her with an embar- 
rassed air, the afflicted mother asked : 

“ Where are we ?” 

“ I know not,” replied Annette. 

“How, then, shall I regain my dwelling?” 

“ Let us make for the middle of the fair-green, to 
which the lights will guide us. Once there, we shall 
be able to make the way home.” 

“ Come, then,” said Madam Belval. 

And she walked before Annette, who was over- 
whelmed with sorrow. She blamed herself for the 
terrible grief that Madam Belval endured ; she 
thought of what Master Etienne Belval would feel on 
hearing that his child was lost ; besides, she could 
not console herself at the idea of seeing no more the 
innocent creature she had so often danced on her 
knee. 

Madam Belval and the nurse having found their 
way again, arrived in La Chapelle at two o’clock in 
the morning. The whole village was in motion ; the 
report of Jeanne’s disappearance had spread quickly 
amongst the inhabitants, who sincerely esteemed the 
father and mother on account of their virtues and 
their kindness of heart. Hence, every one took part 


20 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


in their misfortune, and many proposed to assist in 
seeking the lost child. 

Scarcely had Madam Belval reached her home 
when her husband, Master Etienne Belval, in his turn 
presented himself. Gifted with a mild, engaging 
countenance, full of candor and sincerity, Belval was 
about forty-five years of age. He was returning from 
Paris with his dog, a superb white spaniel, answer- 
ing to the name of Tlioumy*. 

Master Etienne Belval, astonished by the silence 
which reigned in his home, and the sadness with 
which he was welcomed, inquired whether anything 
had happened, and learned the cruel truth. Idolizing 
his daughter, he gave a piteous cry, and turned 
several times in the hall without knowing what he 
did ; then he darted towards the door. 

“ Whither would you go, my love ?” demanded 
his wife. 

“ I want to know what has become of Jeanne.’’ 

It is late now, your search would be in vain.” 

“Ho matter. I cannot remain motionless under 
this roof whilst my beloved child, perhaps, calls me 
weeping.” 

And he went away. It was near daylight when 
he returned sad and dejected. 

“ There is no hope,” he declared in a gloomy 
voice ; “ J eanne is lost to us.” 

So saying, he sank rather than seated himself in 
an arm-chair. Madam Belval answered only by her 
sobs. The unhappy mother had passed the night 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


21 


without sleep, lamenting her lost child. Every little 
while she knelt before the large ivory crucifix which 
adorned her chamber and prayed with great fervor. 

The sorrowing parents resolved to renew their 
search at sunrise. They were preparing to set out 
together when a gentle knock was heard at the 
door. Etienne Belval went himself to open it, and 
a man of forty, or thereabouts, entered with a smile 
on his lips. Elegantly dressed, easy in his manners, 
George Herielle, a rich goldsmith of the city, came 
regularly every month to visit the Belval family, to 
whom he was united by the closest ties of friendship. 
A widower and without children, be had asked to 
hold Jeanne at the baptismal font, and he loved his 
goddaughter as much as though she were of his own 
blood. 

George arrived early, as he usually did, in order to 
give his friends and his charming goddaughter a 
longer day. Hejpresented himself, then, his face 
radiant with joy, his hands full of bonbons^ toys, and 
trinkets ; he exulting the while in the pleasure he was 
going to give Jeanne. He was always welcomed 
with delight, and his coming made a joyous festival 
in the house of Master Belval. 

So the worthy man was no little surprised by the 
gloomy sadness he read in the faces of the master 
and mistress of the house. His eyes immediately 
sought his goddaughter, and not seeing her he be- 
came uneasy. 

He was soon made acquainted with the sad event 


22 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


of the previous day. George was ho less affected 
than the child’s parents, and tears rolled down his 
cheeks. Having recovered the first shock, he said to 
Etienne Belval : 

“We must not remain inactive in presence of such 
a misfortune ; let us continue the search.” 

“ What can be done ?” asked Belval and his wife 
dejectedly. 

“ Have you apprised the fair police ?” 

“Hot yet; I intended doing so.” 

“ That is the first thing to be done. Let us hasten.” 

The two friends went out and repaired to the po- 
lice who at once set about making a general search. 
Besides, using his infiuence with the Provost of the 
city, Herielle informed him of Belval’s misfortune, 
and the magistrate placed at George’s disposal his 
numerous sergeants-at-arms. 

With these powerful means of action, an active 
search was made, not only in ^the plain of St. 
Denis, but even in the latter city and its environs. 
Nothing came of it; not even the slightest trace was 
found that could lead to any discovery. As there 
was no account of any accident in that part of the 
country, they concluded that Jeanne had not per- 
ished, but that she had been carried off, a common 
thing at that period, when all evils semeed to hurst 
at once on France — foreign war, civil w'ar, the plague 
of great comimnies and many others. 

Forced to renounce the hope of finding Jeanne, 
Etienne Belval, his wife and George Herielle were 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


23 


sitting sadly together four days after the catastrophe. 
They lost themselves in conjectures as to who might 
have carried off the child, and confessed that God 
alone could restore her to them. 

Thoumy, the faithful dog, the favorite and constant 
companion of Jeanne’s sports, — the child loved to 
bury her little plump arms in the silky fur of the 
faithful animal, — Thoumy seemed to share the gen- 
eral grief. He jumped or barked no more. Lying 
in a corner, his eyes fixed on the door, he awaited 
the return of his young mistress. The birds them- 
selves were sad ; accustomed to pick their food from 
Jeanne’s Hhnd, they now remained silent in their 
cage and sang no more. The flowers which the 
lovely child used to tend so fondly, deprived of the 
water she had been wont to distribute to them, 
hung their languishing heads and seemed about to 
perish. 

On the child’s little bed her playthings, still un- 
moved, reminded every one of her and of their loss. 

A mournful silence had reigned for some moments 
in the apartment, when a heavy and measured step 
was heard without ; the door opened, giving admis- 
sion to a man of some fifty years, of a mild yet aus- 
tere countenance, clad in the brown habit of the Cor- 
deliers. 

‘ Father Grambert !” cried the three in a breath. 

“Even so, my friends,” answered the religious, 
bending his head gravely and sadly; “may God as- 
sist you !” 


24 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


The monk was the director of the family which he 
had known for a long time. He had baptized Jeanne, 
to whom he was much attached. Having learned 
the fatal news he hastened to console the unhappy 
parents of the child. Knowing that it was useless 
to recall hope to those sorrowing souls, he spoke to 
them only of Christian resignation, and said : 

“The trial the Lord sends you is a cruel one, I 
confess; but divine grace will not be wanting to 
you.” 

Heartrending sighs were the only answer. Father 
Grambert added: “Bow down, then, like the holy 
man Job under the hand of the Almighty. He has 
taken from you the treasure He had given you ; sub- 
mit yourselves to His holy will.” 

“We have not the patriarch’s strength,” sighed 
Etienne Belval, “ and hope even is not permitted us : 
we have lost our child forever. Perchance death 
were preferable for her.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“Who knows into what hands she has fallen ?” 

“The Lord, who hath care of even the smallest 
plant, and watcheth even over the insect hidden be- 
neath the grass, will not abandon an innocent crea- 
ture made to His likeness. Besides, every human 
means of finding Jeanne are not exhausted.” 

“ Hitherto those we have employed have been use- 
less.” 

“We must persevere,” said Father Grambert; 
“ George and I will try again.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


25 


“ Will you succeed any better ? I fear not.” 

“ The Father is right,” said Herielle ; with perse- 
vering courage and Heaven’s aid many difficulties 
may be overcome.” 

Master Belval and his wife shook their head with 
an incredulous air. Grambert resumed in an inspired 
tone : 

“Yes, I repeat it, for such is my conviction; 
Jeanne shall be restored to you.” 

“ When shall we see her again ?” demanded M. 
Belval, moved by the words of the religious. 

“ I know not; it is not given me to read in the fu- 
ture the hour or the day.” 

“What do you purpose doing?” inquired the un- 
happy mother. ^ 

“ I will visit the hospitals, and all the places of 
public refuge. I will interrogate the numerous in- 
habitants of St. Denis whom I know. On his side, 
George Herielle, whose relations are more extensive, 
will actively second my efforts. It is hard to say, 
but we may obtain some information.” 

“Let us not waste time in vain discourse,” sug- 
gested George. “ Let us set out at once.” 

Father Grambert rose with his friend, and both, 
taking leave of Master Belval and his afflicted spouse, 
set out to commence new investigations. They left 
the unfortunate parents more calm, and with some 
glimmerings of hope. 


26 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


III. 

THE WANDERERS. 

It is HOW time to explain how Jeanne Belval had 
disappeared. Annette had taken her to the theatre 
of the Brothers of the Passion. There, for some t‘me, 
the nurse kept the child raised on her arms, so that 
she might see at her ease paradise, hell, Christ, the 
saints and the devils which the drama represented. 

Soon fatigued, Annette placed Jeanne on the 
ground, charging her to keep still beside her. The 
child, tired of seeing nothing of the drama, moved 
away from her guardian, without the latter, pressed 
by the crowd, observing her. By degrees the little 
girl got out of the circle that surrounded the theatre, 
and found herself in front of a magnificent shop 
sparkling with numerous and splendid toys. Jeanne 
stopped to examine this collection, and smiled with 
pleasure to see so many pretty things. She remained 
a while as it were entranced in presence of these won- 
ders. Then she began to wish, and, thinking herself 
still beside her nurse, she turned to speak to her. 

But, instead of Annette, it was a tall, muscular 
man who presented himself to her view. He had long, 
thick hair, a bushy beard, and fierce, swarthy features. 
This personage, who was observing the child, bent 
suddenly over her so that his face touched her fore- 
head. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


27 


Jeanne, frightened, threw herself back quickly, to 
■void the touch of the unknown. But the latter, lay- 
lUg his large hand on the child’s glossy head, held her 
and said, with an attempt at a smile : 

I “ I see, child, many of these things please you. 
^how me which of them you like best and I will get 
it for you.”. 

The little girl, surprised and confounded, looked 
from the stranger’s face to the tempting display in the 
iltall, and appeared undecided. At length she drew 
ftear the store, and timidly pointed to a superb card- 
ibeep, all covered with white wool, and whose glass 
tyes sparkled in the sun. The man with the black 
took down the toy, paid the price demanded, 
ilifcd offered it to Jeanne, who, divided between the 
wish to possess it and the fear of doing wrong, 
Aed : 

: “ Will Annette allow me to take it ?” 

I “ Don’t be afraid,” answered the unknown ; “ not 
|mly will she not scold you, but she will be delighted 
'V see you with such a beautiful toy.” 
f “Are you sure?” asked the child in her simple 
•jray. 

“ She told me so.” 

, j “ In that case, give me the sheep.” 

The stranger gave it to her, and Jeanne seized it 
'^ly the fleece, jumping with joy ; she kissed it a hun- 
dred times, caressed it and regarded it with admira- 

r m. 

“ Come with me,” said the unknown at the end of 


28 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


a few minutes, “I will show you ever so many fine 
things.” 

“And my nurse ?” asked Jeanne, casting a long look 
at the dense crowd in front of the theal^re. 

“Your nurse asked me to go with you and show 
you some of the fair.” 

“ I should like to have her with us.” 

“We shall come hack for her by and by.” 

The child gave her hand to this obliging personage, 
who led her from shop to shop, and bought her more 
toys. Jeanne, in her delight, did not perceive that 
she was going farther and farther from the place 
where she had left Annette. Still, after some time 
she began to appear uneasy, and cried to go back to 
her nurse. 

“ She is coming,” said the unknown. 

“ Will she come soon ?” 

“Very soon.” 

“Is it now ?” 

“ Yes, when we get as far as that shop below yonder 
in the plain,” and he pointed to a vast shed of singu- 
lar form, standing alone. He walked rapidly towards 
it, drawing the child with him; when they reached 
the door she asked : 

“ Where is Annette ?” 

“ She is waiting for us.” 

At the same time the stranger raised a rude curtain 
which concealed the entrance, and penetrated with 
his young companion into the interior. 

The place which the man and the child had just 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTDRY, 


29 


intered presented a singular aspect, very different 
firoiu anything else on the fair-green. The huts it 
00ntained, constructed of planks, affected strange fan- 
tastic forms, and were still more distinguished by 
their want of cleanliness than their irregularity. Rub- 
bish of every sort, bones half picked, remains of food, 
the smoke of animals shut up in the sheds, all that, 
within the inclosure, rotted away under the burning 
sun of August, and spread contagion around. Dogs 
went growling and burrowing through these filthy 
offals, often quarrelling tooth and nail over a piece 
of rotten meat. 

The costume and the physiognomy of the tenants 
of these miserable dens was in keeping with the 
places they inhabited. Clothed in short tunics, the 
head covered with a sort of cap, they wore a woollen 
mantle of the coarsest texture, fastened to the left 
shoulder. 

I Their skin, add the chroniclers of the time, was of 
a deep yellow, their hair dark and crisp ; from their 
0SK8 hung enormous rings of jet or silver. The chil- 
dren, half naked, crouched or rolled on the ground, 
whilst women and boys cooked in the open air, in 
hton saucepans, most of them wanting handles. 

The man who had brought Jeanne was not clothed 
like the inhabitants of this strange place: but his 
features, his manners were the same, and he spoke 
ftuently their rude and energetic idiom. Moreover, 
it was easy to perceive, from the marks of deference 
he received on his way, that he enjoyed high authority 


30 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


amongst them. He passed along through the rows 
of cabins without troubling himself to return the 
greetings addressed to him on every side. 

Jeanne trembled, notwithstanding the caresses lav- 
ished upon her by her officious guide, and she could 
not help crying out when he ushered her into so 
strange a place. 

This habitation, cleaner, higher, better constructed 
than the others, arose at the farther end of the en- 
campment. The large and regular room into which 
the man and the child entered was lit only by an 
opening of a foot square, cut in the wooden partition. 

The room had no other furniture than a large table 
rudely fashioned, and three wooden stools. Two 
women occupied the two first seats. One, who ap- 
peared at least seventy, and was half bent with age, 
was making a willow basket; her features denoted 
idiocy ; she kept continually moving her lips, from 
which no sound escaped, and her fixed eyes never 
turned to see what was passing around her. 

The other woman, who might be about thirty-five, 
was of a tall and elegant figure. On her features 
were still the remains of great beauty faded by 
misery or vice. In the depths of her black eyes 
shone a lurid light ; her raven hair shaded her face, 
which was of a dead marble white. A jet necklace 
encircled her neck ; she wore bracelets of the same 
material, which made the more apparent the alabaster 
whiteness of her arms. 

The two women were clad in robes of coarse stuffj 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


31 


of strange shape, checkered with many colors, in which 
red predominated. 

The younger was playing with an ebony-handled 
stiletto which hung by a silver chain from her girdle. 
The harshest indifference was painted on her face as 
she watched a little girl of some five years old who 
lay lifeless on a miserable pallet. The child, wrapped 
in rags, must have lain there some hours, for her limbs 
had already the rigidity of death. Notwithstanding 
her paleness and emaciation, she was lovely still, and, 
strange to say, looked very much like Jeanne Belval: 
the same figure, the same color of hair, the same 
size. 

The stranger went straight to the woman with the 
stiletto, and presented the child he had brought. 

“ Have I succeeded well ?” he asked. 

“ Perfectly,” answered the woman, casting a pene- 
trating look on Jeanne. 

“ What say you to the likeness 
It is marvellous.” 

A proud smile curled the man’s lips as he walked 
towards the bed of death, leaving the child with the 
woman. The latter resumed : 

“ Hast thou not been imprudent ?” 

“ I think not.” 

“ Did no one see thee ?” 

Surely no.” 

“ Thou knowest what a terrible punishment would 
befal us if this were discovered ?” 

“ Be not afraid ; no suspicion will fall on us. I 


32 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


am no novice in the trade. Besides, we shall take 
every possible precaution.” 

Whilst the man spoke thus, the woman with the 
stiletto had taken Jeanne by both her hands, and 
drawn her close to her, as if to see her the better. 
But the child, frightened at the stranger’s looks, 
screamed and struggled. 

“ What have I done to you, little one ?” asked the 
woman in a harsh tone. 

“ Let me go ! let me go I” cried Jeanne. 

“ Where do you want to go ?” 

“ I want to go to my mother’s house.” 

“ This is it.” 

“No, it is not; the house where I live is much 
finer.” 

“ Be silent !” cried the man, annoyed by the child’s 
cries. 

“ I will go home,” said Jeanne sobbing. 

“ You shall stay here, and if you make any more 
noise you shall be well beaten.” 

The little girl, frightened by this threat, was silent 
for some moments ; but soon, unable to contain her- 
self longer, she again burst forth into tears and sobs. 
Thereupon the woman with the stiletto laid her hand 
roughly on her mouth, so as to stifle her cries. 

As for the man, he began to strip the child that 
lay lifeless on the bed. Having finished this opera- 
tion, he rolled the little body in the rags that served 
for its covering, and gave the clothes he had taken 
ofi* to the woman, his accomplice, who put them on 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


83 


Jeanne. That done, the man took the daughter of 
Etienne Belval and placed her on the pallet. As 
the child redoubled her cries, he brutally struck her, 
and thus forced her into silence. 

Seeing her motionless and terror-struck, he took 
up the corpse he had laid on the ground, and went 
away. 

During this revolting scene the aged crone did 
not appear to pay a moment’s attention to what was 
passing around her. Engaged in weaving willow, 
she kept silently moving her lips, sometimes shaking 
her head. Was she deaf, or completely idiotic ? one 
or the other might be supposed. Had she conscious- 
ness of what was going on around her ? Her im- 
passible attitude made it very unlikely. However it 
was, she made no other motion than what her work 
required. 

At the end of two hours, the man who had taken 
Jeanne away returned, clothed now like one of the 
people of the country, and leading by the hand a 
little boy and girl, who advanced quickly into the 
room. The little boy, about six years old, was 
strong, well made and intelligent looking. The little 
girl, about the same age as her companion, was 
strangely like the dead child, and consequently J eanne 
Belval. 

The man who brought them in led them to J eanne’s 
bed, and they threw themselves on the child’s neck 
to embrace her ; but she repulsed them, and turned 
away so as not to see them. 


34 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Little sister/’ said the boy kindly and compassion- 
ately, “ do you still suffer ?” 

And as Jeanne kept silent, and covered her face 
with her little arms, he added : 

“ It is a long time since we were allowed to see 
you, and you receive us so on our first visit. It is 
not well.” 

He was going on, when the man said to him ; 
“ Your sister is not quite recovered yet, so you must 
not fatigue her.” 

“ Father, let us stay with her a little while,” said 
the boy beseechingly. 

“ It would be imprudent,” replied the unknown ; 
“ do not deprive her of her rest.” 

And without* more ado, he took away the two 
children, who turned more than once, with sorrowful 
hearts, towards her whom they thought their sister. 
The man, after taking them to another part of the 
inclosure, traversed the encampment, and directed 
his steps towards the last row of cabins that bor- 
dered on the street. The night was come, and torches, 
lamps and lanterns, were being lit on every side. 
The curious crowd, which had kept aloof during 
the day, was now beginning to gather. 

In tho^e strange huts there was no merchandise 
for sale. Visitors, nevertheless, glided in one by one 
and then went forth, some joyful, others sad and dis- 
contented, according to the words they had heard, 
which pretended to foretell the future. 

In fact, the singular population of the place we 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


35 


have been describing announced themselves as able 
to reveal the future to whoever wished to consult 
them. These fortune-tellers, a species of mendicants, 
then for the first time seen in France, had arrived 
some days before at La Chapelle with the merchants of 
the land it. They were called Egyptians and Penoncia^ 
or Penitentiaries; these two last names had their origin 
in the fable related by these adventurers introducing 
themselves into Christian countries. 

They were natives, they said, of Lower Egypt, and 
had been forced by the Saracens to abjure the re- 
ligion of Jesus Christ. Reconquered by the Chris- 
tians, they had gone to Rorae, in order to obtain 
absolution for their apostacy. The Pope, having con- 
fessed them, had given them for penance to go seven 
years wandering through the world, without ever 
sleeping in a bed. But, in order that they might not 
die of hunger, he had sent them bulls ordering all the 
bishops or archbishops they should meet on their way 
to give them ten pounds. Tours currency, by way of 
alms. 

Such was the first appearance of that mysterious 
race of men who afterwards received the name of Bo- 
hemians^ because they were said to have sojourned in 
Bohemia. They long infested France and England. 
They were subsequently found in the mountains of 
Spain under the name of GitanoSj in those of Calabria 
under that of Zingarri. Some of their descendants 
still practise on the credulity of the southern provinces 
of France. 


36 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


When the Egyptians came into France, they were, 
they said, in the fifth year of their penance. They 
were impudent liars, for they abhorred Christianity, 
and secretly practised idolatry, or, rather, despised 
all positive religion. 

They reached Paris in two troops at the time we 
have mentioned, and, by order of the magistrates, 
they established themselves near the village of La Cha- 
pelle, on the place set apart for the landit fair. 

There they gave out that they could foretell good 
or bad fortunes. Immediately the Parisians, espe- 
cially the women, hastened to visit these impostors, 
receiving their words as so many oracles. 



THE FiFTH’KNJ'li CENTlIPvY, 


37 


IV. 

TWELVE TEARS AFTER. ^ 

Time rolled on, bearing with it in its rapid course 
both men and things. Twelve years have passed 
away since the events related .above. The village of 
La Chapelle has undergone but little change. At the 
entrance still stands the dwelling of Etienne Belval ; 
but it is sad and solitary ; joy is absent from it, for 
J eanne never returned. 

The interior of that graceful abode has not changed : 
the internal arrangements have remained the same, 
the furniture is placed as of old, and desolation reigns 
as deep as ever in the hearts of the owners. 

Thoumy, the old companion of Jeanne, lies near 
the hearth, on a soft cushion, with drooping head and 
downcast eye ; the poor animal seems still to remem- 
ber his young mistress and mourn her loss ; he would 
even seem to be more mindful of it than a human 
being. 

The volery is still there ; but not so the winged 
minstrels that once dwelt within it ; death struck them 
one after the other, and they were never replaced. 

The flower- stands likewise occupy their ancient 
place ; the plants that garnished them, whose sweet 
perfume once embalmed the air, are faded, withered, 
and their dust carried away by the wind. 

Jeanno’s couch has not been displaced. An object 


38 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


of pious veneration, it remained just as the child 
left it the day her parents were so cruelly bereaved. 
A statuette of the Blessed Virgin, placed in a little 
niche beside the bed, wears round its neck the re- 
mains of the last wreath wherewith the little girl had 
decked it. 

These details show plainly enough that the unfor- 
tunate parents of Jeanne live faithful to the memory 
of their sad misfortune, and that time has not soft- 
ened the bitterness of their grief. 

Master Etienne Belval, although still under sixty, 
has almost the appearance of decay. Tribulation has 
blanched his hair; his limbs have lost their vigor ; his 
look is sad and subdued ; his face is furrowed with 
wrinkles, and his lips smile no more : a premature old 
age has broken down the iron constitution of Etienne 
Belval. 

Sorrow has left no lighter traces on the face of 
Madam Belval. Still, the virtuous woman has bowed 
under the hand of God, and has borne with admirable 
resignation the blow that struck her. In the ardor 
of her Christian faith, she adores the impenetrable 
ways of Providence. 

Annette, a widow and without children, has grown 
old with her afflicted master and mistress, weeping 
with them the disappearance of Jeanne, and daily ac- 
cusing herself of the catastrophe that bereft them of 
their child. The day following the child’s disappear- 
ance she wanted to go and consult the Egyptians ; 
but Etienne Belval and his wife were opposed to it, 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


39 


and Father Grambert ordered her to give up that 
guilty thought. 

The day on which we take up the thread of our 
story, George Herielle and the good monk had come 
to visit the inconsolable family. Jeanne soon be- 
came, as usual, the subject of conversation. 

I “ K she be living,” said George, “ she must be tall 
and handsome.” 

“ She would adorn this dwelling by her virtues and 
her virginal beauty,” said the friar. 

Silently did Etienne Belval listen to these words, 
which awoke sad memories in his heart. Neverthe- 
less, he took pleasure in hearing the name of his be- 
loved child pronounced ; he seemed to see the all but 
worshipped image floating in a mysterious mist. Al- 
though he had lost every ray of hope of ever finding 
Ihis daughter, he sometimes felt relieved by the silent 
contemplation of the past. 

During the first years which followed Jeanne’s dis- 
^ appearance Master Belval had kept up the search ; he 
went through a portion of France, seeking his child 
everywhere ; then he returned home, to die, he said, 
under the roof where his daughter was born. 

At times Father Grambert tried to revive hope in 
that sorrow- worn heart; but Etienne always answered : 

“ Father, you cannot succeed in beguiling me with 
vain illusions ; I know I shall never see my daughter 
more. She will not be here to close my dying eyes ; 
no child of mine shall weep over my grave.” 

The monk and George Herielle were forced to ad- 


40 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


mit that Etienne was right, and that his misfortune 
was irrevocable. For several years had those two 
devoted friends omitted nothing that might lead to 
the discovery of Jeanne, but all their efforts were in 
vain. 

IN'evertheless, the day in question Father Grambert 
had presented himself with a smiling countenance. It 
was because a ray of hope had returned to the holy 
man, and he hastened to communicate it to his friends. 

“ I bring you good news,” said he. 

“Alas!” sighed Master Belval, “there is but one 
piece of intelligence that could revive my heart, and 
that is impossible.” 

“ I understand you, but mind I do not consider the 
child’s return as impossible. A circumstance has oc- 
curred that somehow revives my hope that God will 
restore your daughter to you.” 

“To what do you allude?” demanded Elienne, 
whose curiosity was a moment excited. 

“ To my approaching departure.” 

“ Ah ! if you leave us it will be but another source 
of affliction.” 

“ On the contrary, the journey I am about to take 
ought to inspire you with some hope.” 

“ Whither do you go ?” 

“ I am going to preach in the South of France.” 

“ How can that mission with which you are charged, 
Father, have any happy result for us ?” 

“ Can you not guess ?” 

“ Truly, no !’» 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


41 


“And yet you know that we have never had any 
search made in those distant provinces in regard to 
your daughter. My presence there will enable me to 
make active inquiries. 1 have a sort of presentiment 
that we shall be more successful there than else- 
where.” 

“ I doubt it,” replied Etienne, shaking his head. 

' “ Providence often hears our prayers when we least 

expect it ; it seems, as it were, to prepare agreeable 
surprises for us.” 

“ If the vague hope you have conceived were real- 
ized, I should have nothing more to desire on earth,” 
said Etienne, in a tremulous voice. “ But instead of 
that I look for other trials.” 

“ What is your thought ?” inquired Father Gram- 
fbert astonished. 

I “ It is of you I speak, servant of God.” 

“ Explain yourself ; I do not understand you.” 
“Well! when you set out to exercise your holy 
postolate far away, I am ever fearful that you may 
sink under the toils and hardships of the mission. 
Your indefatigable zeal imposes silence on nature, 
so you waste your life. What a misfortune it 
uld be for us to lose you, — you, our consoling 
ngel 1” 

“ You are the man of dismal forebodings,” replied 
the monk with a gentle smile. 

“You will own. Father, that I have good reason 
not to forget how terrible are human vicissitudes.” 

“We are all in the hands of God; He has marked 


42 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


the term of our career. If He is pleased to take me 
to Himself, may His holy will be done !” 

Saying these words, the monk raised his eyes to 
heaven with an angelic expression; a ray of eternal 
beatitude seemed to illumine his aged countenance, 
and rest on his snow-white locks. Master Belval saw 
it and it grieved him as a threat of approaching 
separation. 

“ You sigh after the reward,” murmured he, “but 
when we shall not have you to console us, what shall 
become of us ?” 

“ The Lord, my son,” answered Father Grambert, 
“never fails any of His creatures. And then our 
friend Herjelle will not desert you.” 

Perceiving that Belval and his wife remained sad 
and silent, he added : 

“Wherefore do you give yourselves up to fears 
which nothing at present justifies ? lam setting out 
on a short journey, and I shall return speedily. Who 
knows but I may bring you good tidings ?” 

These words were heard in silence, and the monk 
rose, affectionately blessed the husband and wife, com- 
mended them to George, and retired. 

After the departure of the monk. Master Belval 
and his wife appeared overwhelmed, and the worthy 
goldsmith could not succeed in assuaging their grief. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


43 


V. 


ARRIVAL OF THE TRIBE. 

Whilst Father Grambert was preparing to set out 
for the South, a singular circumstance occurred at St. 
Germined, a small town of Roussillon. That town, 
with a population of about one thousand, built not 
far from the shores of the blue- waved Mediterranean, 
saw with surprise a band of strange, fantastic figures 
winding beneath its walls. 

A dozen horsemen, clothed like the Egyptians of 
whom we have spoken, advanced in front. Others 
led heavy wagons drawn by horses strangely har- 
nessed. In these long vehicles, covered with cow- 
skins and strewn with straw, were seen heaped pell- 
mell, women, children, animals, glasses, bottles and 
all sorts of household utensils. 

Some were singing, or rather howling ; others were 
playing large cymbals, or beating time on large tam- 
bourines of dog’s leather. 

Surprised by this singular array, the inhabitants 
of St. Germined thought for a moment that these 
might be the Enfants sans-souci^ mountebanks who 
were beginning to go through the country. But 
the face, the language, the deportment of the new- 
comers soon undeceived them. 

Then the capitoul,* a simple and ignorant man, 

* A municipal officer of Toulouse. 


44 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


who had never been out of his own city, accosted 
the first horseman, regarding him as the head of the 
troop. It was the man we saw at the fair of the 
landit^ who had carried off Jeanne Belval. 

“ Who are you ?” demanded the magistrate. 

“ The chief of the Egyptians.” 

“ I know nothing of them,” declared the magis- 
trate. 

“We are poor Christians, expelled from Egypt by 
the Mussulmans, whom may God confound !” 

And the stranger repeated the fable he had for- 
merly palmed off on entering France. He added 
certain variations which much amazed the good peo- 
ple of St. Germined. 

“ Where are you going in this way ?” inquired the 
magistrate. 

“ Condemned to wander through the world, in order 
to accomplish the penance imposed upon us, we have 
no fixed end in our travels. We leave it all to Pro- 
vidence, and we station ourselves wherever we find 
the best welcome.” 

“ Have you any intention of remaining amongst 
us ?” demanded the capitoul, not without some uneasi- 
ness. 

“ Precisely. But fear nothing, we shall be a bur- 
den to no one.” 

“ What are your means of living ?” 

“We work.” 

“ I would be curious to know your profession ; for 
I see HO sign of any in your baggage.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY, 


45 


“We are learned soothsayers ; vYe reveal the future 
to all who wish to know it. With your leave, good 
sir, we will sfay here a while and show you what we 
can do.” 

“ I willingly consent,” replied the capitoul. 

In tlie depth of his province, the worthy magis- 
trate knew nothing of the severe decrees recently en- 
acted against the Egyptians. But even if he had 
been aware of it, it is probable that the desire of 
testing the marvellous knowledge of these strangers 
would have prevailed over duty. 

The inhabitants of St. Germined had no more idea 
than their capitoul of who or what the Egyptians were ; 
they saw and heard them there for the first time. 
Far from suspecting that they were charged by the 
church with the bonds of anathema and pursued by 
royal edicts, they gave entire credence to their words. 

At the period of which we write, the Egyptians 
were nothing more than fugitives ; they stopped but 
a short time in the same place. Pursued by excom- 
munication and proscription, they avoided the great 
centres of population. 

For several years they had kept away from Paris 
and its vicinity, and their doings at La Chapelle had 
cost them dear. Having faith in these impostors, the 
Parisians blindly did their bidding. Hence arose 
divisions in families, underhand dealings, unheaid-of 
disturbances. The scandal became so great that the 
Bishop of Paris went to the village of La Chapelle, 
accompanied by Father Grambert. 


46 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


From the height of a stand erected on the plain 
the friar preached with force and earnestness against 
these strangers. By order of the Pontiff, he pro- 
nounced the penalty of excommunication against 
those who showed their hands to the pretended 
soothsayers, or who believed in the truth of their 
lying predictions. 

The Egyptians, deprived of custom, and fright- 
ened at the rigorous search that was going on for 
Belval’s daughter, decamped from the town of La 
Chapelle at the end of ten days, after having com- 
mitted a number of robberies. 

Notwithstanding the severe penalties imposed on 
these adventurers, other bands speedily replaced the 
first, and invaded France and England. It required 
the most terrible ordinances to repress them. The 
troop that had carried off Jeanne continued for 
twelve years its wicked trade and its peregrina- 
tions. But at the time of its appearance at St. Ger- 
mined, it was reduced to fourscore members; dis- 
ease, bloody quarrels, and the agents of justice had 
cut off the rest. 

It took up its position to the right of the town, at 
the foot of a chain of hills sloping towards the sea. 
The Egyptians, having stopped in the midst of the 
wondering crowd that had followed them, unsaddled 
their horses, unloaded the wagons, drove down stakes 
for the tents, or posts for the sheds, spread the can- 
vas and the skins, nailed on the planks, and were soon 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


47 


nnder shelter; they then prepared to exercise their 
art at the expense of the credulous people. 

Forced to change their residence often to escape 
the fury of their dupes, they hastened to make the 
most of public credulity. The Egyptians were far 
from possessing the romantic and all but heroic char- 
acter which many imaginative people have been 
pleased to lend them freely. Even at the time of 
their greatest prosperity, they lived as miserable 
bandits ; greedy, indolent to excess, addicted to all 
I vices, they formed the worst kind of mountebanks ; 

1 they cheated and defrauded without remorse ; crime 
and the most shameful means of accomplishing their 
ends were to them good. There is an infinite dis- 
tance between this portrait, drawn by impartial his- 
tory, and those wandering, enterprising adventurers, 
painted by fancy, full of stoicism, loving only danger, 
liberty, and independence. 

As soon as these vagabonds, like a flock of birds of 
prey, lighted anywhere, they were seen, crouched on 
the threshold of their huts, calling the passers-by ; or 
else they ran through the crowd, holding out their 
hand like beggars. 

At St. Germined they showed themselves faithful 
to their habits. They seized the hands of their vis- 
itors, inspected every line, examined their faces, and 
from them foretold future events. 

The chief, whom they called their duke, and treated 
with the most profound respect, had his dwelling in 
the midst of the encampment ; it was distinguished 


48 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


from all the others, and naturally attracted a more con- 
siderable crowd. Himself, strangely attired, showed 
himself on a high stage, whence he harangued tlie 
crowd. 

The spectators, answering to his appeal, crowded 
into the dwelling of this man, who fleeced them with 
the aid of a confederate. At his side appeared a 
youth of some eighteen years, with a frank and open 
countenance, beating away on a big drum ; his bright, 
quick glances denoted intelligence : it was the boy of 
whom we had^ a passing glimpse at the landit fair, near 
the pallet on which Jeanne had been thrown. 

Against the wall of the shed, not far from the chief, 
leaned two young girls of seventeen or thereabouts, 
fair, graceful, elegant, even under their fantastic and 
strangely-bedizened garb. One was the former com- 
panion of the little boy, and the other the daughter 
of Master Etienne Belval. Time had singularly / 
changed their physiognomy. How their complexion , 
was dark, their features strongly marked, and im- 
pressed with no common charms. The long journeys, 
the fatigues of a wandering, hard and restless life, had 
contributed to metamorphis them so. Otherwise ^ 
they still retained their marvellous resemblance one 
to the other, so that it would have been impossible ^ 
to discover which was Jeanne. ■ 

By the way in which the two girls looked at each ; 
other and intertwined their bare, braceletted arms, it | 
was easy to see that they loved each other like real ^ 
sisters. Contrary to the practice of those of their 1 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


49 


sex in the rest of the camp, they took no part in the 
exercises of fortune-telling. They had neither the 
impudence nor the shameless language of their com- 
panions, and their faces showed that they disapproved 
of the wicked trade going on in their presence. 

The chief of the Egyptians saw with anger this 
disapproval of theirs. Several times he approached 
the girls with a wrathful air, and ordered them to 
bestir themselves ; but they did not obey. The 
presence of the spectators prevented the duke from 
manifesting his displeasure ; nevertheless, the lurid 
lightning flashing from his eyes, the convulsive trem- 
bling of his lips, the livid paleness of his face, betrayed 
the sentiments that agitated him. 

Night being come, the crowd dispersed, and soli- 
tude reigned around the dwelling of the chief. 

“ Daniel,” said he to the youth af his side, “ our 
day’s work is over ; let us go in.” 

“ Father, I obey you,” answered the youth, unfas- 
tening his drum from the post to which it was tied. 

Silence was instantly restored in the camp, a mo- 
ment before so tumultuous. 



50 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


VI. 


A DOMESTIC SCENE. 

The two girls had gone into the cabin before the 
Egyptian. They found there the two women we 
have described in one of the preceding chapters, 
when relating the abduction of Jeanne. The younger 
had changed considerably ; the remains of her beauty 
were gone ; her face, ravaged by the passions, pre- 
sented a Satanic expression. Hers was the task of 
telling the fortune of those credulous customers sent 
in by the master. 

Scarcely had the two young Bohemians entered 
when the chief appeared, his lip foaming with rage 
and his eye flashing fire. 

“ Now,” cried he, addressing his victims, “ we are 
going to settle accounts.” And he threw himself on 
a wooden seat. 

“ Will you always go on playing with my power ?” 
he said with increasing violence. “ Every one in the 
tribe trembles before L6nor Eschol ; every one, great 
or small, weak or strong, bows down before the duke 
of the Bohemians, and you dare to brave me ? ’ 

“ You accuse us wrongfully, father,” answered one 
of the girls, who wore a paste necklace, whilst her 
companion’s neck was adorned with jet beads. 

“ Have you not hitherto resisted me ? who could 
bear such obstinacy any longer ?” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


61 


We do Hftt act through caprice, nor with the in- 
tention of offending you,” said very gently the Bohe- 
mian with the paste necklace. 

“Do you dare to excuse yourselves? this beats 
everything, and, I warn you, I can stand your dis- 
obedience no longer.” 

The girls hung their heads in silence, with a sad 
and resigned air. 

“ What prevents you,” went on the chief, “ from 
doing as the other women and girls of the tribe do ? 
each of them takes her share, as she ought, in the 
common work.” 

“We cannot follow their example,” said the Bohe- 
mian with the paste necklace. 

“ The reason, an’ it please you ?” 

“ Their conduct and their morals appear to us re- 
prehensible.” 

“ Do you condemn them ?” 

“ They are free to act as they please. We only 
claim the same right for ourselves.” 

“ And think you that I am going to feed you un- 
less you earn your bread like the rest of us ? If you 
were born in a castle, in sooth, it would be all well 
enough, but belonging to our wandering tribe, you 
ought to share our labors.” 

“ Give us some honest work, and we will not refuse 
to apply ourselves to it.” 

“You accuse me, do you?” growled the chief. 
“ Beware, wretched girls ! the bonds that unite us 
shall not screen you from my revenge !” 


52 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ We do not mean to offend you,” murmured the 
girl with the jet necklace. 

“ Every word you speak is an insult, and yet you 
declare you do not mean to offend me ? I tell you 
it is too much !” 

The Egyptian’s voice waxed deeper and hoarser, 
his gestures more threatening, and the girls began to 
tremble. He added with a diabolical sneer : 

“ Forsooth, I ought to put you in a convent ! 
You are opposed to following the trade of your 
father, and of Judith, your mother !” 

“ The practices you propose to us, God and virtue 
condemn,” said the girl with the paste necklace. 

This answer enraged L6nor Eschol beyond all 
bounds ; he jumped from his seat to the middle of the 
room, his eyes flashing fire, his face convulsed with 
passion, his fists shut, and he cried in a paroxysm of 
rage : 

“ Heard ever any one the like ? what ! is it to me 
you speak of God and virtue, as if I cared for those 
things 1 never shall those accursed names be spoken 
again under my roof, and you shall pay dear for your 
rashness !” 

So saying, the duke of the Bohemians was about 
to rush on the two adoptive sisters, when a new actor 
appeared on the scene, which was about to become 
tragic. Daniel appeared on the threshold, and the 
girls, wild with terror, darted towards him claiming 
his protection. The young man threw himself before 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


53 


them, extended one hand to defend them, and with 
the other he stopped L^nor. 

“Father,” said he in a firm and decisive tone, 
“ leave my sisters in peace.” 

“ Begone,” roared the duke of the Bohemians, 
“ begone, I say ! let me work my will !” 

“ What would you do ?” 

“ Chastise refractory children.” 

“ Would you kill them ?” 

“ What is that to you ? Have I not a right to do 
as I please ?” 

“ I do not dispute it.’’ 

“ Well ! be off at once !” 

“ I will, if you must have it so. But first let me 
say one word.” 

“ Speak !” 

“ The day that one of my sisters fell under your 
blows, I would be capable of revenging her death in 
your blood. That’s what I had to tell you.” 

“ Would you not shrink from such a crime ?” 

“ I fear not,” replied Daniel with terrible composure. 

L6nor stood with folded arms before the young 
man. He grew pale at this threat, and he anxiously 
scanned his son’s face. The features of the young 
Bohemian had undergone no sort of change ; only his 
fine forehead was slightly wrinkled, and his. dark eyes 
flashed with unwonted fire. The chief knew the in- 
domitable strength and energy of Daniel ; he knew 
that the youth always did what he said he would do, 
and he drew back a step. 


64 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ So,” he murmured, “ I am no longer the master 
here ! In vain does the whole tribe follow no other 
law than my will ; at home, in my own family, I meet 
opposition, rebellion that I cannot put down !” 

Then, addressing himself directly to the young 
man, he said : 

“ Do you refuse to submit to my authority ?” 

“No such thing, my father !” 

“ Then it is for me to punish my disobedient daugh- 
ters as they deserve.” 

“As you please, but you shall not do it before me.” 

“ Respect your father, O my son ! On your account 
I will forgive M^ryem.” 

“ Why not also Jenny ?” 

“ Have you forgotten all the trouble she has given 
me?” ' 

“ Suppose I remember nothing of it ?” said Daniel 
in an ironical tone. 

“Jenny has rejected the ways, the practices, the 
traditions, the belief of our tribe.” 

“ What harm is that ?” 

“ Do you ask me such a question ?” 

“ Yes, I would be fain to know.” 

“Do you count as nothing her allowing herself to 
be perverted by the Christians ?” 

“ Every one should be allowed freedom of con- 
science.” 

“ Your sister did not stop there : she made M^ryem 
the accomplice of her fault, and she will end by draw- 
ing yourself away, if I don’t put a stop to it.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


55 


M^ryem is as free as Jenny ; why do you torment 
the girls in this way ?” 

“ You take things easy,” said Lenor with bitter em- 
phasis. “ M6ryem, whom I have loved more than her 
sister, whom I have loaded with caresses, to treat me 
so ! Doth not such ingratitude deserve severe cen- 
sure, and have I not a right to complain ?” 

“Father, I have heard enough of this matter. Let 
J enny and M6ryem be Christians, it matters little to 
us. But what is of importance to me, at least, yea, 
what I value beyond all price, is the affection of my 
sisters. Now, I maintain, because I have often had 
proof of it, that they both love me, and I love them 
in return. Hence, to touch a hair of their heads 
would be to touch the apple of my eye.” 

The chief of the Bohemians insisted no more after 
this declaration, as plain as it was firm. He dismissed 
Jenny and Meryem with an imperious gesture, and 
took his son with him to another apartment of their 
dwelling. 

Daniel alone, with his mother Judith, the proud 
duchess of the Egyptians, exercised any influence 
over L4nor Eschol. Endowed with extraordinary 
strength of body, with rare ability, with admirable 
candor and sincerity, he had gained, by the gentleness 
of his manners, the affection of most of the Bohe- 
mians. Moreover, by right of birth, he was to suc- 
ceed their chief in command of the tribe. 

The young man never abused his rising influence ; 
naturally kind and generous, he cherished his sisters, 


56 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


whose protector and defender he, on all occasions, 
constituted himself. The union of those three souls, 
their mutual tenderness, their amiable disposition, 
subdued aU the degraded beings of whom the band 
was composed. 

Daniel had always treated the two girls as sisters, 
never dreaming that they were connected with him by 
no tie of kindred. Neither did they any more sus- 
pect it. Belval’s daughter had completely forgotten 
her infant years; she thought she had been born 
amongst the Bohemians. 

Till the age of ten years the 'three children received 
the usual education of the tribe, that is to say, they 
were left without instruction of any kind, religious 
or moral. At that period Jenny was initiated, by a 
Providential circumstance, in the doctrines of Chris- 
tianity. The seed fell on excellent soil, and imme- 
diately produced the best of fruit. Not content 
with enjoying the blessing of faith, and practising as 
faithfully as her situation permitted, the duties of re- 
ligion, she would make her sister a sharer in her 
happiness ; she converted Mdryem. 

L6nor Eschol, having noticed the change in the 
two children, was terribly angry, and commanded 
them to renounce Christ. On their refusing, he 
treated them most cruelly. Young as they were the 
two sisters bravely endured this increasing persecu- 
tion. Faithful to the teachings of the Gospel, they 
abstained from the practices of divination, and gave 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY, 


57 


the Bohemians no more assistance. Threats, hard 
privations, even blows, did not shake their resolu- 
tion. Strengthened by aid from above they pre- 
served intact the deposit of faith, and God rewarded 
them for their generosity by abundant consolations. 



68 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


vn. 


THE SICK WOMAN. 

Although the wrath of L6nor Eschol was dreadful, 
it was less so to the two sisters than the constant, 
implacable animosity of Judith. Hard and vindictive 
by nature, the Bohemian was passionately attached 
to the idolatrous practices of her tribe. 

The duchess mortally hated Christianity, because 
it condemned the superstitions of her race and the 
vices to which the adventurers gave themselves up. 
Hence, when once she knew that Jenny and M6ryem 
were Christians, she spared them no cruelty; her 
fruitful imagination multiplied occasions of annoying 
and persecuting them. She acted coolly, deliberately, 
and tortured the guds in a thousand different ways. 
The patience and gentleness of her victims increased 
her hatred, and she filled them incessantly with new 
bitterness. 

When the chief and Daniel had quitted the room 
she occupied, Judith cast a malignant look on the two 
sisters and said to them : 

“ What is the meaning of this idleness ? are we all 
at your service ?” 

“ Mother, what can we do ?” timidly asked Jenny. 

“ Prepare the evening meal,” sharply replied Es- 
chol’s wife. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


59 


The youDg girls obeyed without saying a word. 
On the marches, in the halts and in the encampments^ 
Judith always gave them the hardest work to do. 
Often were they fainting and exhausted from sheer 
fixtigue, so that they could with great difficulty go 
through with the heavy tasks imposed upon them. 
They bore this pitiless treatment without a murmur, 
without ever uttering a complaint. 

The Bohemians, daily witnesses of the eminent 
virtues of these two young girls, could not help 
esteeming them, and were always glad to receive a 
visit from them. When a woman or child of the 
tribe fell ill, one of the two sisters hastened to go and 
do what she could for them. They thus did much 
good amongst their wretched companions, and they 
would have done more were it not for the continual 
surveillance of Judith, L6nor Eschol, and especially 
Toby Spiller, the spy and evil genius of the chief. 

Toby Spiller, one of the worst vagabonds of the 
tribe, had neither hearth nor home ; he lived without 
family and without friends, lying, now under a wa- 
gon, now under the penthouse of a shed or on the 
threshold of a tent. He was fed by the crumbs from 
L(§nor’s table, and in return gave the chief the benefit 
of his dark, astute mind. His special mission was 
never to lose sight of the two girls. 

Judith’s aged companion, to whom we gave a 
passing notice in connection with the events of the 
landit fair, and who was no other than the mother 
of the duchess of the Bohemians, gave the same signs 


60 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


of idiocy as before. She appeared always insensible 
to what was passing around her. 

When the tribe was in motion, they placed Marah 
— as she was called — at the bottom of a wagon, and 
she followed the band. Left in charge of Jenny and 
Meryem, she showed neither pleasure nor discontent; 
she seemed to feel nothing. Judith neglected her, 
but she never complained ; affronts and acts of kind- 
ness she accepted with the same impassibility. 

Xow, the chiers wife was not always to be envied. 
God, in His justice, which He sometimes manifests in 
this world, permitted that the ill she did to others 
should be paid back to herself. Notwithstanding the 
influence she exercised over L6nor, the latter treated 
her cruelly at times. 

The day following the arrival of the tribe at St. 
Germined, Judith, by her harshness and her pride, 
urged the chief too far ; in the paroxysm of his fury, 
the Bohemian brutally struck his wife, and threw her 
half dead on the ground. 

Old Marah was alone in the room. Although ap- 
parently insensible, she noticed what was going on, 
for she dragged herself towards her daughter, shook 
her, recalled her to herself, and helped her to lie down 
on some thick furs that were spread on a pallet. 

Fortunately Jenny and Meryem soon made their 
appearance. With admirable zeal they bestowed on 
Judith the most affectionate care. Seeing that she 
was in a high fever, they prepared a potion which 
soothed her considerably. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


61 


The chief did not present himself in the sick room 
either that evening or the following night, during 
which time the sisters watched and tended Judith 
with filial tenderness. Next day, the fever, far from 
abating, became still more violent. 

There was in the tribe an old Bohemian who was 
well acquainted with the virtues of herbs, and had 
some little knowledge of surgery. Although he* 
mixed up certain superstitious practices with his art, 
he had really some skill, founded on experience and 
observation. He stood in high repute amongst his 
companions, who could have little recourse to the 
* doctors of the towns. Jenny and Meryem, frightened 
at their mother’s illness, sent Daniel to seek him. 

The old Bohemian, being come to the chiefs 
abode, examined Judith attentively. As he looked 
anxious, one of the girls said : 

“ What think you of our mother ?” 

“ The case appears to me very serious,” he replied. 

“ Can there be any danger ?” 

“ The nature of the disease does not permit of its 
being treated as it should.” 

“ What mean you ?” asked Daniel. 

‘ Agitation and the violence of the blows have so 
disturbed the brain, that I see no means of quieting 
your mother.” 

This announcement terrified the brother and the 
two sisters, and the young man said : 

“ Is it possible, then, that our mother’s state is so 
desperate that there is no remedy to be had ?” 


62 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Do you wish to know the whole truth ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Well !” said the Bohemian in a low voice, but 
so that Jenny and Mdryem could hear, “ I must not 
deceive you with hope ; the situation is very alarm- 
ing. There is, it is true, a means of cure, but it is 
not in my hands ; I cannot procure it in this country.” 

“ Tell me where it is to be found ; I will take 
horse, and go for it immediately.” 

“ Though your horse had wings, you would not 
get back in time.” 

The three young people understood that the Bohe- 
mian had just pronounced their mother’s death war- 
rant. Little as they owed to her, for she treated 
them as a cruel stepmother, still they heard with 
sincere sorrow the discouraging words of the doctor. 
They hung their heads in silence, and the tears came 
into their eyes. 

Touched by this mute sorrow which bespoke the 
goodness of heart of Daniel and his sisters, the old 
man turned to them, and added : 

“ There may still be a gleam of hope. I will leave 
you an order, which you are to execute to the letter. 
I do not answer for its success ; however, if the 
remedies be given just as I say, I would not be sur- 
prised if your mother recovered.” 

A ray of joy shone in the eyes of the brother and 
sisters. The Bohemian prescribed several medica- 
ments, and again insisted on the utmost care being 
given to Judith ; he then retired. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


63 


It needed not the old man’s earnest recommenda- 
tion. Jenny and M4ryem posted themselves at the 
bedside of their supposed mother, and scarce left her 
for a moment. ISTothing could equal their anxious 
solicitude, their delicate attentions, their eagerness to 
procure for the patient what relief they could ; they 
complied with her slightest wishes, and, if possible, an- 
ticipated them. 

After the doctor’s departure Judith wished to 
know his opinion; she demanded the truth in such 
an imperious tone that they were obliged to tell her. 
She received the terrible sentence without any apparent 
emotion. ISTevertheless she appeared touched by the 
devotion of her daughters and the tenderness they 
showed for her who so ill deserved it, at that hour 
when they had nothing more to hope or fear from 
her. She followed them with her eyes, and the hatred 
she had so often shown for them seemed to melt away 
in the fire of such charity. But she spoke not a word 
which demoted this change of feeling. 

On the morning of the following day Ldnor Eschol 
made his appearance in the room where his wife lay 
in a burning fever. The chief s anger had died away, 
and a vague uneasiness might be read in his face. He 
folded his arms as he stood beside the bed of pain, 
and gazed a moment, silent and motionless, on the 
livid features, the glistening eyes of Judith. He 
looked steadily at her two youthful nurses. Then 
throwing himself abruptly on a seat, he said to the 
sisters : 


64 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Children, go and take some rest, I will take care 
of your mother in your absence.” 

Jenny and M6ryem, amazed at this sudden fit of 
compassion in a man usually so unfeeling, looked 
at each other, not knowing what to answer. At last, 
as he seemed to wait till one of them spoke, J enny 
replied : 

“We are not fatigued, father !” 

“ You are, I see it,” replied Eschol. 

“ Even so, permit us to remain with our mother.” 

“ It is my wish that you should go away for a few 
moments.” 

Anfi as the girls hesitated, he added : “ It must be 
so ; do as I say.” 

“And I tell you to remain,” said Judith, rising on 
her elbow. 

“ You can come back soon,” pursued L6nor, paying 
no attention to what his wife said. 

“We will not leave our mother,” said both sisters 
together. “ She is suffering, she wants us here, it is 
our duty to remain.” 

“You resist me still?” cried the chief beside him- 
self with anger, and darting on his daughters, he 
seized each roughly by the arm. 

But a hand suddenly restrained him; he turned 
and perceived Daniel. 

' “ Father,” said the young man in his clear, emphatic 
tones, “ let my sisters stay here, since my mother de- 
sires it. She has need of their kind attentions. It is 
not at a time like this that violence should be used.’’ 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


65 


“ Accursed be thou !” muttered Ldnor, who let go 
his hold, and rushed furiously from the room. 

Judith thanked her children with a look ; she was 
too much affected to do it with her voice. 

It was not affection that had brought the chief to 
his wife, suffering victim as she was of his brutality ; 
he feared lest the Bohemian, yielding to the influence 
of her kind nurses, and overcome by their devotion, 
should allow herself to be won over to their belief. 

Once returned to the room he usually occupied, 
Eschol sent for Toby Spiller, who presented himself 
with his usual fawning and hypocritical look. The 
two Bohemians had a long conversation together. 




66 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


YIU. 

THE CONSOLING ANGEL. 

After tlie departure of L6nor, Daniel remained 
some time with his sisters at his mother’s bedside, 
contemplating with sorrow the progress of the dis- 
ease. At length he withdrew to apply himself to his 
needful occupations, for he held an important place 
in the government of the tribe. Then the two young 
girls, certain that their cares were agreeable to J udith, 
redoubled their zeal and multiplied the proofs of their 
affection. 

It was not alone lor the relief of the body that they 
thought, the care of the Bohemian’s soul occupied 
them still more. Now and then, when the patient 
appeared to be asleep, they threw themselves on their 
knees to ask God to enlighten their mother; and 
J udith surprised them several times in that posture. 
They knew perfectly well that a miracle was neces- 
sary to make the light of grace penetrate into the 
mind of the duchess and transform her heart ; but 
that miracle they implored with simple confidence, 
not doubting that the Lord would grant their petition. 

However, there was a gulf between the convictions 
of the sick woman and those of her daughters. The 
religion of the Bohemians consisted in a rude mixture 
of Pagan, Jewish and Mahometan superstitions, bor- 
rowed from the countries they had traversed. At 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTERT. 


67 


bottom their worship was all negative, and if driven 
to its consequences, ended in atheism. 

In Christian countries, like France, for instance, 
the adventurers, in order to not betray themselves, 
made a show of practising Catholicity. But the 
hypocritical acts which public opinion imposed upon 
them, rendered the Christian faith still more odious 
to them. 

The hatred of Judith for the dogmas of the Church 
was even increased by the conversion of Jenny and 
M6ryem. The obstacles to her change were great 
and humanly insurmountable. 

Jenny, seeing the fever increasing instead of dimin- 
ishing, and fearing the delirium which is the precursor 
of death, resolved to broach the subject of religion 
boldly to her mother. After having fervently asked 
assistance from above, she approached the sick woman. 

“ Dear mother,” said she in her sweetest accents, 
“ you are very ill.” 

“ I know it,” answered Judith, in a voice less harsh 
than usual. 

“ My sister and I would wish to cure you. What 
joy it would give ns if God restored you to health !” 

“ If there is a God, he abandons me,” faltered the 
sick woman with a troubled look. 

He inhabits the heavens,” said Jenny with an in- 
spired air ; “ from the height of His celestial throne. 
He watches over all His creatures.” 

“ I would fain believe it. But I feel my life ebbing 
fast away.” 


68 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Have good courage !” 

“I do not deceive myself; I have been cruelly 
abused, and I am going to die.” 

“ Perchance there may still be hope.” 

“ No, all will soon be over with me in this world.” 

“ After that, there is another, where, if you will, we 
may be united again.” 

“ Child, your conduct, your virtues and those of 
your sister, lead me to put faith in your words. But 
you are two angels, and I am a devil.” 

“ Oh ! say not so 1” 

“ I speak the truth.” # 

“ Hear rather the holy voice of our religion ; it pro- 
claims that heaven is made for all the children of 
men. The confession of the divinity of Jesus Christ, 
repentance for the faults committed, invested with 
conditions determined by the Man-God, suffice to 
open the entrance thereto.” 

Judith sighed. 

“ Mother,” resumed the young girl, “ will you re- 
fuse us the consolation of seeing you pray and hope 
with us ?” 

“ What do you desire ?” murmured the sick woman, 

“ That you embrace our faith.” 

“ Would that make you both happy?” 

“ Yes, happy beyond expression.” 

“ What is necessary to be done ?” 

“ To receive the instructions of a Christian priest, 
and accomplish what he prescribes.” 

“ I consent,” said Judith, and her face, assuming a 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY, 


69 


brighter expression, suddenly lost its wonted bitter- 
ness. 

She resumed after a pause : 

“ How can you bring,a minister of Christ into this 
camp ?” 

“ Who will prevent us?” answered Jenny. 

Lenor will not allow it.” 

“ He cannot refuse.” 

“ Do you not know him, then ?” 

“We know that our father is the sworn foe of the 
Christian religion ; but as he and his companions are 
obliged to feign, at least, respect for the religion of 
this country, they dare not refuse a priest admission 
here.” 

“ The chief will not shrink from that measure. You 
have just seen what a watch he keeps over me.” 

“Leave it to us, mother! We will accomplish 
it.” 

“ Alas ! I dare not.” 

“ God will assist us.” 

“I do not understand,” said Judith, “by what 
means you can apprise a minister of Christ.” 

“ Yet there is a very easy way of doing it.” 

“ Will you, then, go yourself?” 

“ That would be difficult ; but we will find a faith- 
ful messenger.” 

“ Who would you employ on such a delicate mis- 
sion ?” 

“ Daniel.” 

The sick woman was silent and seemed to reflect. 


70 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


After a little while she raised her eyes to her daugh- 
ters. 

“ Daniel is not a Christian,” said she ; “ he holds a 
considerable position in the tribe ; would he go on 
such an errand ?” 

“ He would, I am sure he would,” exclaimed Jenny. 
“ For us, for you, there is nothing our brother would 
not do.” 

“ Go, then, child, and be blessed for your admirable 
devotion.” 

The girl left the sick room immediately, and darted 
in search of Daniel. She soon met the Bohemian. 

‘‘ Brother,” said she, “ I would speak with you.” 

And she drew him aside. Daniel, surprised and 
alarmed, asked in a trembling voice : “ Is our mother 
worse ?” 

“ Ho, she is still in the same condition.” 

“ What is the matter, then ?” 

“ Our mother wishes to charge you with an import- 
ant mission, requiring the most profound secrecy.” 

“ She may count on me.” 

“ You are not unaware that her illness wiU most 
probably prove fatal ?” 

“ To my great grief I know it. But we must sub- 
mit to the decrees of fate.” 

“ The duchess of the Bohemians has, perchance, not 
long to live.” 

“We are threatened with a sad separation; and 
what crowns my affliction is the way in which our 
mother has been brought to the gates of death.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


71 


“Daniel, let us throw a veil over, our father’s 
faults ; let us think of nothing now bat of her who is 
about to die. Before leaving this world she would be 
glad to see a Christian priest.” 

“ A Christian priest !” cried Daniel ; “ did I hear 
you aright ?” 

“ I have said the truth.” 

“And it is our mother who sends you?” 

“ Even so.” 

“ Daniel knit his brow and let his head fall on his 
breast with a troubled, anxious look.” 

“ Brother,” said Jenny, “ will you refuse to execute 
our mother’s pious wiU ?” 

“ I said not that.” 

“ But you hesitate.” 

“ i^ot so : I am reflecting on the numerous difficul- 
ties I may meet.” 

“ If it were not that I dreaded considerable obsta- 
cles I would myself have brought the priest. But I 
am a weak woman, whereas you are a man. For our 
mother’s sake you will, if necessary, struggle against 
our father.” 

“ Jenny, I will, and lam proud of the confidence 
you have in me. I am going to set out, and I will 
bring our mother a priest.” 

The girl pressed her brother’s hand. 

“ Is it to St. Germined I am to go ?” he asked. 

“ I would rather you should go farther.” 

“ Where would you have me apply ?” 

“At Seilhac, three leagues from here.” 


72 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Why there rather than at St. Germined ?” 

“ Because you will find at Seilhac a holy monk 
whose words will do our mother more good than 
those of any one else.” 

“You know him, then ?” 

“Perfectly,” answered Jenny, blushing; “I have 
several times had occasion to see him ; I love and 
esteem him because of his eminent virtues. When 
you have spoken to him you will feel as I do towards 
the servant of God.” 

“ When must I bring him ?” 

“As soon as possible.” 

“ Our father will just be absent in the forepart of 
the night; I will take that opportunity to go to 
Seilhac.” 

“ Adieu till night, then ! — I will await you at the 
bedside of our dear patient.” The brother and sister 
parted. 

Although Daniel had remained attached to the 
superstitions of his tribe, he willingly set out to do 
the bidding of his mother and sisters. The maestral* 
w^as blowing with violence since the evening, uproot- 
ing the olives in the plain and ravaging the hills. 
The Bohemian, regardless of the inclemency of the 
weather, glided stealthily from the camp, taking care 
not to be observed. As soon as he had gained the 
valley, and thought himself certain of being out of 
the reach of prying eyes, he darted off on the road 
to Seilhac. 

* The North-West wind in the Mediterranean. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


73 


Daniel was a good runner; notwithstanding the 
wind he reached his destination a little before night- 
fall. Having seen the priest immediately he re- 
traced with him the way to the Bohemian encamp- 
ment. 

The religious to whom the young man had applied 
was called Father Hermanfred. The friend of Father 
Grambert, and belonging to the same Order, he re- 
placed him in the South. The venerable friar we 
have met several times at the house of Master 
Etienne Belval had set out to fulfil his holy mission. 
But the poor and the wretched, whose support and 
comfort he was in Paris, had so earnestly protested 
against his absence, that Father Grambert’s superiors 
had recalled him before he reached the province he 
was to evangelize. In his place they had sent Father 
Hermanfred. 

The good religious, learning that there was ques- 
tion of saving a soul, immediately followed his guide, 
who succeeded in introducing him to the camp of 
the Bohemians about two hours after nightfall. 

Before he took the father into the dwelling of the 
chief, Daniel said to him : 

“ Be not surprised, minister of God, at what you 
may observe amongst us.” 

“ Make your mind easy on that head, my son,” an- 
swered the monk, who knew the Bohemians by re- 
putation. 

“ If it please you, ask me no questions on the sub- 


74 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


ject, as it would be impossible for me to satisfy 
you.” 

“ I will be discreet, and do as you say.” 

The friar having entered the dwelling of Lenor 
Eschol, was received by Jenny and M^ryem, who 
conducted him to the sick woman’s bed, and left him 
alone with her. The man of God remained long 
with Judith. Going out he said to the two sisters : 
“ Go now to your mother ; she is in peace with the 
Lord.” 

The girls returned to the sick room, whilst Daniel 
accompanied the monk back to Seilhac. 



THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


75 


IX. 

THE CONFESSION, 

Entering their mother’s chamber, Jenny and Mery- 
em perceived in a corner old Marah, whom they had 
forgotten to take out on the entrance of Father Her- 
manfred. Their grandmother counted for so little in 
the family, she appeared so insensible ‘to all that was 
passing around her, that neither the sick woman nor 
the girls had thought of removing her to another 
apartment. Besides, Marah was fast asleep. 

The two sisters, approaching Judith’s bed, were 
struck by the joy and gladness visible on the Bohe- 
mian’s face; a sweet smile parted her lips, an expres- 
sion of heavenly bliss shone in her eyes. Judith was 
transfigured. 

The deadly fire that smouldered in the depths of 
her lustrous orbs was now extinguished ; the lines of 
her pale face, late so hard, so gloomy, were softened 
and lit up with a calm reflection : serene resignation 
illumined her brow. 

At sight of her daughters she held out her hand to 
them, they raised it piously to their lips, and she said 
to them with inexpressible emotion : 

“ Children, I thank you ; you have procured me 
more than life, in restoring me to joy, and happiness, 
and hope.” 

“ It is to God that your gratitude is due ; He alone 


76 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


has done all ; we have been but His humble instru- 
ments.” 

“Ah !” resumed the sick woman, “ but the priest’s visit 
has done me good ! In the midst of my sufferings, on 
the threshold of eternity, I enjoy consolations before 
unknown !” 

“ Our felicity equals yours,” answered Jenny in a 
voice of deep emotion. 

“ I shall owe to you the salvation of my soul, angels 
whom the Lord* has sent me ! Come, both, till I em- 
brace you !” 

The two sisters eagerly obeyed, and Judith held 
them long in a close embrace, shedding tears of joy. 

Daniel appeared during this touching scene. At 
sight of the young man the Bohemian let go her 
daughters, and fixing on the young man a look full of 
sadness : “ Daniel,” said she, “ come near me.” 

Surprised by her solemn tone, he approached his 
mother’s bed. ^ 

“ Daniel,” said the sick woman, seizing her son’s 
hand, “ I am soon going to leave you.” 

“ Leave me, O my mother I the hope of still pre- 
serving you I” 

“ God calls me to Himself, Daniel, and we must 
part. Would you that it be forever ?” 

“Ah! what a thing to say! Do you not know 
how much I love you ?” 

“ Well ! my last hour is close at hand. WiU you 
allow me to appear before the Supreme Judge with 
the responsibility of the bringing up I gave you ! 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


77 


Your sisters, better than I, have already renounced 
error and embraced truth ; will you refuse to imitate 
them 

“ My greatest wish is to please you.” 

“ Then grant my last request.” 

“ What do you require of me ?” 

“ That you acknowledge the law of the Christ- 
ians.” 

“Do you command me to do so ?” 

“ Is it too much to ask of you ?” 

“ No ; I am willing to obey you. For some time 
past I have been thinking of ranging myself under the 
banner of Christ. Your entreaties, your example, and 
that of my sisters, make me decide on doing so.” 

“ Be blessed, my son, a tliousand times blessed,” 
cried the happy mother, drawing the young man to h'er 
bosom ; “ now I shall die in peace, for I shall leave 
this world in the firm hope of seeing you all again in 
a better life.” 

Daniel answered only by his tears and sobs. J udith 
added : “ After God, your sisters are the cause of our 
conversion. Were it not for their generous, heroic 
conduct we should, perchance, have remained to the 
end in the darkness of idolatry.” 

The young man turned to Jenny and Mdryem with 
a look of unutterable affection, and from the depth of 
his heart these words came forth : 

“ Thanks, O my beloved !” 

“ Now,” resumed the mother, “ now that we are 
all united in the same faith and the same hopes, come 


78 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


nearer to me, dear children ! I have important things 
to reveal to you.” 

Daniel, Jenny, and M(^ryem sat down on the pallet 
whereon Judith lay. 

“ I wish,” she began, “ to lay my whole life before^ 
vou ; vou will draw useful lessons from it. Listen, 
then 1” 

The three young people, lending their whole atten- 
tion to the words of the Bohemian, were regarding 
her in respectful silence, when a creaking noise was 
heard in the partition behind Judith’s bed. 

“What is that?” cried the young man starting. 
The noise was not heard again. 

“ It is a false alarm,” said the sick woman ; “ it is 
the maestral shaking the boards of the partition.” 

Daniel made no answer, but with his ear to the 
wall, continued to listen. Nothing stirred. No 
sound was heard but the howling wind without. 
The young man, reassured, seated himself beside his 
sisters, and Judith commenced as follows the story 
of her life : 

“ I was born in the neighborhood of Constantinople. 
My mother was called Marah ; she is the aged woman 
who resides with us ; her family name I will keep to 
myself. Our house was one of the oldest and most 
powerful of the Latin baronage ; French by origin, it 
had established itself in the East at the time of the 
Crusades, in the conquest of the Greek Empire. It 
settled in that fine region and partly retained its 
religion and customs. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


79 


“ The last and only scion of that noble race, I had 
the misfortune to lose my father in my early child- 
hood. My mother, who was a Byzantine, was soon 
married a second time to a Greek. Light, frivolous, 
the sport of every passion, she neglected my child- 
hood, and left me to the care of masters of her own 
country who brought me up in a deplorable manner. 

“ Astute and possessed of all their nation’s impu- 
dence, they began by stifliug in my soul the seeds of 
Catholicity sown there by my father, and initiated 
me in the schismatic doctrines of Byzantium. In- 
stead of instructing me in the practice of Christian 
virtue, they inoculated me with the poison of Greek 
corruption. 

“ In justice I must add, however, that my inclina- 
tions tended but too much towards the inordinate 
pleasures of the world. Young, fair, rich, I could not 
fail to fall into the abyss. 

“ Becoming, when of age, absolute mistress of my 
own actions, I plunged into the whirlpool of forbidden 
joys, counting neither my own resources nor any- 
thhig else. After a year of this disorderly life, I per- 
ceived with terror that my senseless dissipation, and 
more so that of my mother, had reduced the paternal 
inheritance to nothing. That blow, which was at the 
same time a warning and a lesson from Heaven, and 
which ought to have opened my eyes, had no effect 
on me. Void of all religious feeling, aspiring only to 
the enjoyments of this earth, I thought only of ward- 
ing off the sad fate which I considered my misfortune. 


80 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


I therefore resolved to continue my mad career at 
any cost. I succeeded but too well in my fatal pro- 
jects. 

“There was then in Byzantium a young man of 
unknown origin, of elegant manners, whose manly 
beauty charmed my eyes. I saw him, and, doubtless, 
pleased him, for he laid at my feet his supposed 
riches. In fact, he lived in grand style, and his fabu- 
lous wealth was everywhere spoken of. 

“ I listened to his seductive proposals, and I mar- 
ried him, without reflection, without making any in- 
quiries. That man was L6nor Eschol. 

“ For some weeks we kept high festival, and the 
intoxication of pleasure transported me. We dis- 
sipated to our hearts’ content, and sowed gold beneath 
our steps, to reap new joys. My mother, reduced to 
misery by the death of her late husband, had come 
to join us. 

“ Ldnor’s wealth was less than he had told me, or 
than I had imagined ; in two months it was all gone. 
One day he told me with a bitter smile which I shall 
never forgot : 

“ ‘ My fair Judith, I am more than ever enraptured 
with your charms ; but I regret to tell you that for- 
tune condemns us to retirement.’ 

“ ‘ What means this language ?’ I cried in terror. 

“ * Be calm,’ replied he. ‘ It means that the drama 
is ended, and the curtain must fall.’ 

“‘In pity, explain yourself; I do not understand 
these enigmas.’ 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 81 

“ ‘ It is very simple, nevertheless ; we have squan- 
dered in a few weeks all I possessed.’ 

“ ‘ Is it possible ?’ I faltered, my heart torn with 
anguish. 

“‘It is true. Yesterday we were thought im- 
mensely rich ; to-day we have nothing, not even the 
roof that covers us.’ 

“At this terrible news I fell into frightful spasms,* 
whence I only recovered to give vent to impreca- 
tions against L6nor. I reproached him with having 
deceived me, and having basely abused my confidence. 

, “ ‘ I will not stop to refute such charges,’ said he. 
I admit all these accusations, and I accept them. At 
this moment I will use candor and lay all my projects 
‘before you.’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean to do ?’ 

“ ‘ To quit Constantinople.’ 

“ ‘ Whither will you go ?’ 

“ ‘ To rejoin a troop in which I hold a considera- 
ble rank, and it is on this point I wish you to decide.’ 

“ ‘ Have you, then, the right to give me orders ?’ I 
exclaimed, revolted by the coolness with which Lenor 
expressed himself. 

“ ‘ I claim no such right,’ he replied with a cruel 
smile ; ‘ if you had let me finish you needed not to 
have asked me such a question.’ 

“ ‘ I hear you,’ murmured I. 

“ ‘ Well ! I give you your choice to remain here or 
go with me.’ 

“ ‘ I will go with you.’ 


82 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ He was, after all, my husband, and I still had some 
remains of affection for him. Besides, to expose my- 
self to all chances, to command wretches, to live 
with brigands, was not so bad for me as to descend 
to a low rank in Constantinople, and to vegetate 
there a prey to misery, to all manner of humiliations. 
I left the city then with Ldnor and my mother. 

“After having traversed a portion of Syria, we ar- 
rived at the den of a band of vagabonds who lived 
either by robbery or imposing on public credulity. 

“ Eschol belonged to this tribe, and the adventur- 
ers hailed him as their duke or second chief, for they 
had another who bore the pompous name of king. 
Welcomed with honor by my husband’s new sub- 
jects, I resigned myself to my strange destiny. 
However frightful this new life appeared to me, it 
seemed better than the shame of remaining, in my 
country, the laughing-stock of my former rivals. 

“ My old mother did not bear this change of con- 
dition as stoically as I did. Refusing to stoop to the 
infamous practices of those vagabonds, she received 
the worst of treatment from them ; her reason gave 
way little by little, and she fell into the state wherein 
you now see her. 

“ When we had sojourned some time in Lower 
Egypt, we went back to Europe. Formed to all the 
manners and customs, and to all the requirements of 
the profession of my companions, I at length prac- 
tised with a certain pride the art of divination. I 
identified myself with the tribe, and interested my- 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


self in its success. We visited several provinces of 
France and Germany. The principal chief having 
died during these wanderings, my husband succeeded 
him in the command. 

“At this period we penetrated into France with 
the merchants who went periodically to the landit 
fair. That journey pleased me much, for I earnestly 
desired to know the country of my forefathers.” 

At this moment the sick woman, exhausted by the 
exertion this long story had caused her to make, 
stopped, out of breath, and sank back almost fainting 
on her bed. The two girls hastened to apply such 
restoratives as they had ; she revived, and was pre- 
paring to take up the broken thread of her narrative, 
when the noise heard a little before was heard still 
louder. 

“ I am not mistaken,” cried Daniel, bounding off 
like a deer ; “ we are spied.” 

And the young man darted out of the room. 
Throwing a glance into an adjoining passage he saw 
a shadow detach itself from the wall, and glide, as 
it were, into the darkness. Daniel recognized a hu- 
man form, and would have followed its steps. But 
the shadow vanished without leaving any trace of 
its passage. He searched all about his mother’s 
chamber without succeeding in discovering anything. 

Having returned to his sisters he found them sup- 
porting the inanimate form of Judith in their arms. 


84 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


X. 


THE MARCH. 

Daniel had guessed right; a man was watching 
what took place in the sick room. Toby Spiller, Li- 
ner’s spy, was plying his infamous trade. 

By his master’s order, the wretch kept within 
hearing from the beginning of the night. Placed 
against the wooden partition at the back of Judith’s 
bed, he saw through a crevice what was going on in 
the Bohemian’s chamber, and heard distinctly all that 
was said. 

Toby had seen the entrance of Father Herman fred ; 
an invisible witness, he had lost neither a word nor 
gesture. He had also overheard the sick woman’s 
conversation with her children. 

At length, wishing to change his position, he in- 
voluntarily made the noise which had brought Daniel 
out of the room. But knowing the place so well, 
the spy easily eluded his search. 

He hastened in quest of his master, L6nor Eschol. 
The chief of the Bohemians awaited him at the end 
of the encampment. Stretched under a poor shed 
erected on the slope of a hill, and completely desert- 
ed, he did not at first see his minion. When he 
heard Spiller’s stealthy step a smile of satisfaction 
curled his lip. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTERY. 


85 


Toby, on going in, carefully closed the door formed 
of disjointed boards, and Lenor, hdlf rising, said : “ So 
you have come back at last.’’ 

“ Yes, master !'’ 

“ What have you learned ?” 

“ I have made important discoveries.” 

“ Conceal nothing from me.” 

“ Your wife has followed the fatal example of Jenny 
and M6ryem !” 

“ What do you tell me ?” cried L6nor, his voice 
hoarse with anger. 

“ What I have seen.” 

“ What ! the proud Duchess of the Bohemians, 
whose pride or whose will I have never been able to 
subdue, she to have been influenced by two young 
girls ! it is impossible; you must have misunderstood 
what you saw and heard.” 

“ Pardon me, lord I I have as good hearing as any 
one in the tribe, and I am not mistaken.” 

“ What has happened ?” 

“ Judith has yielded to the entreaties of those whom 
she calls her daughters.” 

“ Speak plainer.” 

“ She has abjured our traditions, our customs, our 
practices, to adopt the abhorred religion of Christ.” 

“ I had some vague presentiment of that misfor- 
tune. N evertheless, I could not imagine that it would 
be realized almost under my eyes.” 

“ Yet it is really so, and the act of treason is con- 
summated.” 


86 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ I believe you,” said Lenor. “ Did you see any- 
thing else ?” 

“Yes, Judith did not confine herself to professing 
the Christian religion.” 

“ What further did she ?” 

“ She received a monk into your dwelling ?” 

“ Curses light on her !” howled the chief, clenching 
his fists with rage: “a monk under my roof! what 
insolence and what audacity !” 

“ I have not told all,” said the spy with a savage 
smile. 

“ What more, then, have you to tell me ?” 

“ I pity you, master 1” 

“ Speak, and do not keep me in suspense,” said Ld- 
nor impatiently. 

“ I refer to your son.” 

“ Where is he ?” 

“ In his mother’s chamber.” 

“ What does he there ?” 

“ He is in company with his sisters,” evasively re- 
plied Spiller, whose object was to unroll successively ^ 
before the chief’s eyes the different scenes he had 
witnessed. “ The harm is not there. But I fear that 
the young man may allow himself to be perverted in 
his turn.” 

“ Would he be on the point of becoming a Chris- 
tian ?” inquired the chief in a husky voice. 

“ That I know not. But I remarked alarming 
signs. It was Daniel that brought the monk to your 
lodgings, and it was also he that conducted him out 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 87 

of the encampment. Besides, he promised his mo- 
ther to embrace the law of Christ,” 

“ Woe, woe to him !” cried Lenor in fearful accents. 

“All is not yet lost,” observed Spiller; “your son 
has as yet abjured nothing, or pronounced the act of 
adhesion to Christianity.” 

Toby did not dare openly to accuse the son of the 
chief ; he was not unaware that the young man en- 
joyed a great influence over the Bohemians, and that 
he cared little for the paternal authority. For the 
same reasons Eschol repressed his anger. 

“I hope,” he contented himself with answering, 
“ that Daniel, docile to my voice and the dictates of 
reason, will return from these senseless notions.” 

“ May you succeed in persuading him !” 

“ In any case, I will deprive him of the opportuni- 
ties he has of being perverted.” 

“ If you cut ofi* the evil at the root,” said Toby, 
“ you will act wisely.” 

“ I will do so.” 

So saying, L6nor dismissed Spiller with a gesture, 
but the spy added : “ I have not finished.” 

“ What remains ?” 

“ Something you will not like to hear, and some- 
thing, too, that concerns you more than anything I 
have told you.” 

“ Fate pursues me, I see. But explain yourself ; 
I am anxious to hear all.” 

“ Judith has been making disclosures.” 

“ To whom ?” 


88 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ To your children,” answered the spy, who seemed 
to take pleasure in revealing to his master with des- 
perate slowness the discoveries he had made : it was 
a poison he distilled, as it were, drop by drop. 

“ What did Judith tell them ?” said L6nor, clutch- 
ing the spy by the arm. 

“ She raised the veil which covered your past and 
her own. Now Daniel, Jenny and M6ryem are aware 
of the events which marked your life and that of their 
mother.” 

“ So, she made Jenny and Mdryem acquainted with 
the secret of their birth ?” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ How ! did you not hear all ?” 

“Yes, as far as your first journey into France. 
Judith was there, when a slight noise I made called 
Daniel’s attention, and I was obliged to retire. But 
you may rest assured that your wife finished her 
story.” 

“ You have told me things of the very highest im- 
portance.” 

“ So I think.” 

“ The conversion of Judith,” pursued Eschol, “ the 
confession she has made, the uncertainty with regard 
to Daniel, may cause great trouble to the tribe.” 

“You are needlessly alarmed, I think.” 

“ Not so. I measure facts coolly, and I maintain 
that what has just passed places us all in danger.” 

“ What can Daniel and the two girls do against the 
whole tribe ?” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


89 


“ They might one day give ns up to justice. Treach- 
ery will cost them nothing ; they would even make 
a merit of it, for the Christians regard us as abomin- 
able reprobates.” 

“You must own, master, that we have not stolen 
our reputation.” 

“ Even so ; it is no less true that our situation is 
most critical. We must put Jenny and M^ryem out 
of sight.” 

“ It will be no easy matter.” 

“ The one that troubles me most is Daniel.” 

“ What do you fear from him ?” 

“That he may upset my plans. Devoted to his 
mother and the girls whom he believes his sisters, he 
will do everything to protect them, if we try to take 
them away. However, if we would save ourselves 
from misfortune, they must be sent far away, or even 
perish ; if not, we are lost.” 

Whilst L6nor spoke, Toby was examining the dim 
horizon ; he was trying to pierce the darkness of the 
night in the direction of the sea, whose distant roar 
was heard, and at times the white crest of its waves 
was seen. 

“ What do you perceive ?” asked the chief. 

“ I am looking — ” muttered the spy. 

“ For what ?” 

“ The means of getting you out of trouble.” 

“ In sooth, I would fain know what it is that fixes 
your attention at this moment.” 


90 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“I can easily tell yon that; I am watching the 
troubled surface of the sea.” 

“ You must have wonderfully good sight,” said Le- 
nor in a slightly ironical tone, “ if you can distinguish 
anything through such darkness as this. As for me, 
I would lie if I said I descried the smallest object 
a few perches off.” 

“ Look to the right, master !” 

“ I discern nothing.’’ 

“ See, then, yonder,” said the spy extending his 
arm, “ is there not a black speck rising and falling on 
the foaming billow ?” 

“ So there is. But what has the black speck to do 
with the subject in hand ?” 

“ Can you not guess?” 

“ No, by hell !” 

“Well! I am going to tell you: that black speck 
is a vessel.” 

“ What is that to me ?” 

“ Excuse me ; that vessel belongs neither to the 
king nor the coast service. By this time and at this 
hour, the government ships are lying at anchor in 
the safest harbors.” 

“ What vessel is that, then ?” 

“ A Barbary corsair ; such, at least, is my humble 
opinion.” 

“I do not understand how that can interest me. 
Whether a pirate or a royal vessel rides the sea at 
this moment, is all the same to me.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTERY. 


91 


“ I have known you quicker at catching a good 
idea,” said the spy. 

“ Will you speak plainly ?” cried L6nor, irritated 
by these hints. 

There was a short silence, then Toby added : “ITow, 
master, in consequence of your wife’s revelations, 
you are at the mercy of Jenny and Mery6m, I am 
surprised, then, that you do not think of what im- 
mense service an African pirate may be to you. 
These sea rovers possess, in the first place, a numer- 
ous crew, and they ask no better than to exchange 
their gold for beautiful maidens.” 

“ Truly, Toby, you have started an excellent idea ; 
I will reflect on it, for it is worth the trouble.” 

“There is no time for reflection,” replied Spiller; 
“you must decide immediately, for to-morrow the 
vessel will be gone.” 

“ You are right,” replied L^nor, “ it would be mad- 
ness to lose such an opportunity, which will not only 
free us from all fear, but will procure us a consider- 
able sum.” 

“Yet, master,” resumed the spy, “in saying that 
this craft is a Barbary corsair, I only pretend to make 
a supposition ; it may be, in sooth, that I am mis- 
taken.” 

“ It would be requisite, then, to enter into com- 
munication with the vessel.” 

“ It is easier to give the advice than to put it in 
execution.” 


92 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ The only means, it seems to me, of knowing the 
truth, is to repair on board the ship.” 

“ Who will undertake such a mission ?” 

“ Would you be unwilling to do it ?” 

“ The step is perilous,” said Toby. “ N^evertheless, 
I will risk the undertaking, if you will secure to me 
a share of the profit you will make by it.” 

“ That I will do most willingly.” 

“ How much will you give me ?” 

“ Fix the sum yourself” 

“ Well ! I will be content with the half” 

“ You surely jest ?” 

“ Hot the least in the world.” 

“ The half! did I hear you aright ?” 

“ Yes ; it is not too much, in regard to the risk I 
am to run.” 

“ I cannot accede to such conditions.” 

“And I will do nothing unless you do. The re- 
ward would be still below the danger.” 

“ What do you dread, then ?” 

“ First, the sea is extremely rough, and it is not 
prudent to attempt boarding a vessel, for the first 
time, in such weather. Then, I have got to pass un- 
der the ramparts of St. Germined’s tower, where con- 
stant watch is kept.” 

“You are mistaken on that point. Yesterday I 
advanced, by chance, to the foot of the tower, and 
convinced myself that it is very ill guarded. As it 
is a long time since pirates have been seen on these 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


93 


shores, there is only in the tower some two or three 
men, who are certainly fast asleep at this hour.” 

“ Be that as it may,” said Spiller, “ I will not go 
to that vessel if you grant me not what I ask.” 

“ Go, then, for half the profit.” 

“ Before I set out,” added the spy, “ it behooves 
us to understand each other, for fear of mistake. If 
I succeed in boarding the vessel, and arranging mat- 
ters with the captain, I will hoist a light, and you will 
come to me at once; in the contrary case I shall 
have failed.” 

Lenor having promised to comply punctually with 
these directions-, Toby Spiller took his way imme- 
diately to the coast, and soon disappeared in the dark- 
ness of the night. The chief of the Bohemians re- 
mained motionless in the same place, his eyes fixed 
on the sea. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour’s expectation, a 
bright light shot upwards to the sky, shedding a 
lurid glare on the rigging of the ship and the sea 
around her. 

“ It is the signal ; Toby has succeeded,” said Ldnor 
to himself in an under tone. And he darted out of 
his shelter. In a few moments he reached the shore. 
Fishing barks were moored in little creeks ; he un- 
fastened one, turned the prow towards the vessel, and 
boldly committed himself to the troubled sea. The 
wind, blowing violently off shore, brought him quickly 
to the corsair. 


94 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


It was a strong Barbary carvel, displaying at its 
gaff the flag of Tunis. 

L6nor Eschol seized the grapnel thrown him from 
the ship, made his craft fast to the vessel near that of 
Toby, and mounted the deck. He found it encum- 
bered with every engine of war and of navigation, and 
furrowed with dark shades, the lips of which, opening, 
showed two rows of white sharp teeth. There were 
men everywhere, along the barricading, in the yards, 
in the tops. The night watch was set, and half the 
crew slept in the safety of the carvel. 

The chief of the Bohemians shuddered to think 
that he was at the mercy of those dreaded pirates. 
He was speedily reassured by the sight of his spy, 
Toby Spiller, advancing in company with a Moor of 
tall stature, with whom he was chatting familiarly. 
The sea rover, stout and robust, with a bronzed com- 
plexion and strongly marked features, wore the loose 
garments in use in his nation, a rich Damascus scim- 
itar, and all the insignia of command. 

Toby, advancing towards his master, said : “ I 
have the honor, master, to present to you the captain 
of this vessel, Abdi-Rhaman.” 

Ldnor bowed. 

“You come,” asked the corsair, “ to treat with me 
on business ?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ What is your business ?” 

“Two young maidens of rare beauty, and both en- 
dowed with remarkable talents.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


95 


Very goo(l. What do you expect for them?” 

“ I think myself entitled to ask a good price for 
them.” 

“ I am willing to give you a good price, but you 
know I cannot make a blind bargain.” 

“Would you have a particular description of the 
slaves in question ?” 

“That were of no avail. On this point I must 
judge for myself. Bring them on board, and then 
we shall consider the matter.” 

“ That appears to me difficult.” 

“ Wherefore ?” 

“ Because, if we do not come to terms, I would be 
in an awkward position. Think, Signor Moor, what 
my situation would be with those girls if I were 
obliged to take them home again. Unhappily I dwell 
for the moment in a Christian country, and if the least 
hint got abroad regarding my intentions, I were a lost 
man.” 

“ You are prudent,” said the pirate with an equivo- 
cal smile. 

“ Prudence is the mother of safety,” declares the 
old proverb, “ and I think it should not be des- 
pised.” 

“ What assurance have I that you do not deceive 
me?” 

“ I would be very silly if I did. Moreover, you 
are only to pay the sum agreed on in exchange for 
the merchandise.” 

“ In that case, name your terms.” 


96 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


The chief of the Bohemians proceeded to name a 
sum, which was accepted after some debate. 

“ Was that all you had to communicate to me ?” 
said the Moor. 

“ Wait a moment, I have not finished. I have a 
woman at home of fifty years or so, who is seriously 
ill.” 

“ What would you have me do with her ? Do you 
take my carvel for an hospital ?” 

“Allow me to finish, Signor Moor ! This woman, 
if she recovers, as she probably will, is capable of 
doing good service to her master, for she is vigorous, 
and received a brilliant education.” 

“ That is a very different bargain from the other, 
and it is for me to make the conditions.” 

“ Oh ! as for that woman, I will be nowise par- 
ticular ; I will not sell her to you.” 

“ Then we shall be able to understand each other.” 

“You see nothing is more easy ; you will have a 
slave the more, free of cost.” 

“Agreed.” 

“ In return,” said L6nor, “I will ask a favor of you.” 

“ Ah ! there are conditions ?” 

“ They are easily fulfilled. I venture to say you 
will not refuse my request.” 

“ If it be possible for me to grant it, I will.” 

“ I have a son, a youth of eighteen, whom I value 
highly, and would not wish to lose ; only I would be 
pleased to have him taken away for some time.” 

“ How can I assist you ?” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 97 

‘‘ I thought you might probably consent to receive 
him on board your vessel.” 

The pirate reflected for some moments; then he 
replied with a strange smile : “ I would willingly do 
what you ask, but there is a difficulty in the way.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ It is that I know not whether I shall return hither. 
I do not usually frequent these shores.” 

“ But you will touch at some other European coast ?” 

“Assuredly; I will visit the ports of Italy before 
returning to Tunis.” 

“ That will exactly serve my purpose. I count on 
leaving France soon myself with my troop, and I will 
steer my course towards the peninsula. Only con- 
sent to take my son on board, and land him on the 
shores of the Adriatic ; I can easily find him there.” 

“ I will do as you wish.” 

“ Be not ofiended,” added Eschol, “ if I insist fur- 
ther. It is agreed that I give you my son. But I 
would wish to have a guarantee that he will be safe 
on board your vessel.” 

“ N" othing more just. But I know not what pledge 
to ofier you : you are a Christian, and I am a Mussul- 
man.” 

“ I am not a Christian,” said L6nor vehemently ; 
“ I, probably, hate the law of Christ more than you 
do.” 

“ Who are you, then ?” 

“ A little your brother and co-religionist.” 

“ How so ?” 


98 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“I follow on land the trade you follow on sea. 
My men and I are generally known by the name of 
Bohemians and Egyptians, and we respect the name 
of Mahomet. Between the true believers and us the 
difference is slight.” 

“ Here is what I will do,” proposed the pirate : 
“ in exchange for the youth, I will give you a sum 
equivalent to the price of his sale, with a writing 
stipulating that he shall be restored to you on its re- 
payment.” 

“ I prefer something else, for I hold to your land- 
ing him on a point of the Italian coast.” 

‘‘ Speak, then, what would you have ?” 

“ An oath sworn on the Koran and by the sacred 
name of the Prophet.” 

“ Agreed ; so it shall be. How, it remains for you 
to see how we are to fulfil our agreement. I have 
little time to remain here. If you are so minded, 
then, I will land to-morrow night with some men, and 
present myself at your encampment to receive the 
two maidens, the sick woman, and the young man. 
Of course I will pay you immediately the sum agreed 
on.” 

“I will expect you, for the sooner the affair is 
terminated, it is all the better for me. Till to-mor- 
row night, Signor Moor, adieu I” 

The pirate waved a salute to the chief of the Bo- 
hemians, who descended from the deck of the carvel 
with Toby Spiller. The two brigands unmoored 
their skiffs, and prepared to regain the shore. But 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


99 


as the wind was ahead, the return was difficult and 
dangerous ; the captain gave them some men to 
convey them to the shore. 

' The chief and his spy passed St. Germined’s tower 
without hindrance, and returned to the encampment. 
They arrived there at the dawn of day. Then, cast- 
ing a glance on the sea, they saw that the carvel was 
out of sight. The Barhary vessel had put out to sea 
notwithstanding the strong gale that was blowing. 



100 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


XL 


DISAPPEARANCE. 

On approaching his habitation, Lenor Eschol was 
surprised to see no one around it, and to hear no 
noise within. He communicated his impressions to 
Toby, and said to him: 

“ What can have happened ?” 

“ Let us go in, and we shall know,” answered the 
spy, as anxious as his master. 

The two Bohemians, having pushed the door open, 
went in. After a rapid survey of the interior the 
chief uttered a cry of rage ; the several compartments 
were empty; at least there remained only Marah, 
asleep in a corner of Judith’s room. The sick woman, 
Jenny, M6ryem, even Daniel had disappeared. 

“ What means all this ?” asked Lenor in a husky 
voice. 

“ The meaning is, I think, plain enough.” 

I do not understand it.” 

“Facts speak for themselves, nevertheless,” said 
the spy, with vexation. 

“ How do you understand it ?” 

“ The women and your son have escaped ; that is 
clear, it appears to me, for the nest is empty.” 

“ I see it now. But what can be the motive of this 
disappearance ?” 

“ 1 guess what it is ; they are warned, they dread 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


101 


you, your proceedings appeared to them suspicious. 

‘•Yes, I understand; they dreaded my projects, 
and have betaken themselves where I cannot reach 
them.” 

“May we not have still greater misfortunes to 
dread ?” 

“ What do you apprehend ?” 

“ Something that would place us in a critical posi- 
tion.” 

“ Explain yourself !” 

“ I much fear that the fugitives may be gone to de- 
nounce us.” 

“ You are right ; I know them now, and they will 
certainly do it, if they have not done it already. I 
ought to have been more on my guard.” 

There was a moment’s silence between the two 
brigands. Then the chief of the Bohemians advanc- 
ing towards old Marah, who continued to sleep, shook 
her roughly by the arm. The unfortunate woman, 
waking up, regarded L6nor with terrified eyes, and 
uttered a plaintive moan. Eschol tried to make her 
speak, and tormented her some time with multiplied 
questions; but he could draw nothing from her. 
Marah was probably incapable of giving any infor- 
mation, and the rascal was obliged to leave her in 
peace. 

He returned to Toby Spiller, who stood looking 
on, silent and motionless, and said to him in a de- 
spairing tone : 

“ What had we best do ?” 


102 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ I know not,” murmured the spy. ^ 

“ Have you no good advice to give me ?” 

“ I am thinking the matter over.” 

“ The dilemma is great, and we must not make a 
decision lightly. If we are unhappily denounced, we 
cannot conceal ourselves by flight from the danger 
that threatens us.” 

“ Ha ! ha !” cried Toby suddenly slapping his fore- 
head, “ I think I begin to understand it. Yes, I am 
sure I have it now.” 

The spy’s face brightened up, the smile returned to 
his lip, and L6nor watched him in surprise, waiting 
till he should develope his thought. 

“ Here is my reasoning,” pursued Spiller, “ and you 
will, doubtless, judge, like me, that it is well founded : 
the fugitives have no project against us, otherwise 
they would not have left Marah behind. I will even 
go further, and add that Daniel and his sisters are 
only gone away for a little while.” 

“ On what grounds do you make this supposition ?” 

“ On what grounds ?” 

“ Yes, I would fain know.” 

“ If the fugitives had had the intention of leaving 
us forever, they would have taken away the old 
woman. They would never think of leaving her ex- 
posed to our vengeance.” 

“ Your argument appears to me conclusive.” 

“ There can, I think, be no doubt about it.” 

“ But wherefore, then, this sudden disappearance 

‘‘ Can you not guess ?” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


103 


“ In sooth, no !” 

“In my opinion, they merely wanted to remove 
J udith to a place where she could more conveniently 
receive the assistance of her new religion, and where 
they could more easily tend her to their liking. Do 
you think I am mistaken 

“ I think, on the contrary, that your supposition is 
very probable. But it behooves us that the two girls 
return before to-night, for we must not break our 
word with the pirate.” 

“ That is just the difficulty.” 

“All our plans will fall to the ground unless they 
come back to-night. What say you ?” 

“ I am of your opinion.” 

“ How are we to avoid this mishap ?” 

“Wait,” said the spy, with a thoughtful air; he was 
fairly at his wit’s end. 

“ There is little chance, I fear,” said Ldnor. “ Never- 
theless, let us try to obtain some information.” 

The two Bohemians, going out together, visited 
the neighboring huts, and inquired if any one knew 
what direction had been taken by the fugitives ; they 
thus went all through the encampment without hear- 
ing anything of them. 

Foiled in their attempt, and fearing to excite the 
attention of the strangers who began to crowd in, 
they returned to the chief’s dwelling to consult anew. 
We shall avail ourselves of the opportunity thus af- 
forded us to relate what passed during their visit to 
the Moorish carvel. 


104 


TKE BOHEMIANS IN 


Neither Judith, Jenny, M^ryem nor Daniel ever 
suspected the infamous projects of Ldnor. They 
were unaware of the presence of the corsair on the 
adjoining coast, and had they known it, the idea 
would never have occurred to them that the chief 
thought of selling three females living under his own 
roof, one of them his lawful wife, and the others his 
reputed daughters. 

Nevertheless, Daniel, certain that Judith’s conversa- 
tion with him and his sisters had been overheard by 
a spy, easily understood that, the wretch had been 
sent by L^nor, and that the chief would speedily 
learn all. 

Thenceforth he felt that he had everything to dread 
on the part of Eschol, and that the latter would re- 
venge himself on the unhappy creatures shut up un- 
der his roof. He feared, moreover, that he might 
not be able to preserve himself from the effects of 
Lenor’s wrath. He resolved, then, to act without 
loss of time, and to place his mother in safety during 
the Bohemian’s absence. 

Some days previously the young man had made a 
'singular discovery in the neighborhood of St. Ger- 
mined. At the bottom of a narrow valley, in a lonely 
place, covered over with brushwood and tufts of trees, 
he had observed considerable ruins, the crumbling 
walls of an old castle, the shattered remains of which 
lay scattered over a vast extent of ground. 

No road led to these -ruins, which were overgrown 
with tall grass, wild gilliflowers, and even some de- 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


105 


generate pomegranate trees. No human trace was 
visible all around ; wild animals, bees, and osprays 
alone made their dwelling in that desolate place. 

The adventurous spirit of Daniel was not dismayed 
by the forbidding aspect of these ruins ; he boldly 
penetrated into them, visited them in detail, and 
stopped before a large aperture choked up with 
thorns and briars. Having raised this prickly cur- 
tain, not without tearing his hands, he saw that the 
opening sank abruptly under ground, and he hesitated 
not to venture in. 

He had only taken a few steps when he met a 
vault. He advanced into a narrow passage, solidly 
arched, which appeared to him to lead to an ancient 
gallery hollowed out beneath the castle. Having 
partially explored these catacombs and satisfied his 
curiosity, he retired, little doubting but he might soon 
turn his discovery to good account. 

Daniel remembered this vault the night he wanted 
to take his mother away from L6nor’s bad treatment ; 
he resolved to convey Judith and his sisters thither. 
Having carefully wrapped the sick woman in furs 
and coverlits, he took the precious burden on his 
shoulders, advised Jenny and M6ryem to take pro- 
visions with them, and they set out for the ruins. 

In the hurry of departure, Marah was completely 
forgotten. Daniel easily found the entrance to the 
arched gallery, which he widened at the mouth ; then 
he penetrated with his mother and sisters into that 
unknown retreat. After following the narrow pas- 


106 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


sage for some time, he came to a large chamber in 
tolerably good preservation. The apartment, decor- 
ated with some paintings and paved in mosaic, must 
have served for a bath. 

Judith was still in a swoon. Her son spread the 
furs and coverlits on the ground, and laid the sick 
woman upon them ; the girls placed themselves be- 
side the Bohemian, and used the utmost endeavors to 
restore her to consciousness. 

The young man, having procured wood, lit a large 
fire to dispel the dampness of the vault. Two hours 
had passed before Eschol’s wife recovered her senses. 

“Where am I?” she, asked on opening her eyes. 

“Dear mother, be composed,” answered Daniel; 
“ you are safe.” 

And he told what he had considered it his duty to 
do in order to defeat the evil designs of the chief. 

The sick woman showed herself fully sensible of 
these filial attentions. 

“ Thanks, child,” said she; “ I am sensible of your 
devotion ; “ but it was useless to take so much trou- 
ble for me ; I feel that I have but little time to live. 
Little matters it, then, where I breathe my last.” 

“ Would you not be glad,” asked Jenny, “ to see 
the holy monk who has already visited you ?” 

“ I desire nothing so much.” 

“ Well ! in this retreat you can converse with him 
at pleasure, without fear of odious eavesdroppers.” 

“ I will hasten, then, to bring Father Hermanfred 
again,” said Daniel. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


107 


‘‘ Let him come quickly.” 

“ I will bring him here before night.” 

With these words the young man kissed his mo- 
ther’s burning brow, gave some brief instructions to 
his sisters, and darted oft on the road to Seilhac. 

Daniel was gone some moments when the sick 
woman threw an anxious glance around her. 

“ What has become of my mother ?” she said in a 
tone of alarm. 

The two girls started at this question, and remem- 
bered that they had forgotten old Marah. 

“ She has, doubtless, remained in the encampment,” 
Jenny answered evasively. 

“Alas !” sighed Judith, “ shall I not see her before 
I die ? I have a duty to perform in her regard.” 

Jenny and M^ryem regarded her, uncertain what 
they ought to do. The Bohemian added: “I wish 
to ask her pardon for having brought her into the 
midst of a troop of bandits.” 

“You shall have that consolation, mother,” said 
Mdryem in a decided tone. 

“ Who will bring Marah hither ?” 

“ I will go myself to seek her.” 

“ You cannot go alone,” exclaimed Jenny; “ if our 
mother permits it I will accompany you.” 

“ There is no danger. The chief cannot have re- 
turned, and no one will yet have perceived our ab- 
sence.” 

“ Jenny is right,” said the sick woman ; “ it is not 
prudent that Meryera should go alone. Children, if 


108 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


you would try to bring my mother to me, go to- 
gether.” 

Conformably to Judith’s wish the two girls made 
the necessary arrangements that she might not suf- 
fer too much from their absence, and immediately 
set out for the encampment of the tribe. 



THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY, 


109 


XII. 

THE POTION. 

Jenny and Meryem promised to return soon to 
their patient, and to avoid, if possible, meeting Ldnor. 
Unhappily, their hopes were not to be realized. 

On entering the rude dwelling they had left a few 
hours before, they perceived Lenor Eschol and Toby 
Spiller, who were waiting for them in a state of fear- 
ful exasperation. 

At sight of the fugitives, a ray of ferocious joy 
darted from the eyes of the chief, and he pounced 
upon them like a tiger on his prey. He seized them 
by the arm, and made them cry out with pain. Push- 
ing them to the farther end «f the room, he growled 
out : 

“ I have you again, and you shall not escape me 
this time ; your doom is sealed.” 

Toby Spiller placed himself before the door, as if 
to shut out all retreat from the two unfortunates, thus 
carrying' out his master’s threats. 

The two sisters answered only by a faint moan. 

“You shall speak,” roared Ldnor again with in- 
creasing fury. 

“ What would you of us ?” murmured Jenny, 
trembling in the iron clutches of the monster. 

“ What have ye been doing this night ?” 

“We are not obliged to give an account of our ac- 
tions.” 


110 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“You refuse to answer ?” 

“ What do you wish to know ?’* 

“ I would know where you have conducted Judith, 
my wife.” 

“We have helped to place her beyond the reach 
of your bad treatment,” said Jenny in a firmer 
tone. 

“ You have perverted her, and she has joined your 
accursed sect !” 

“ She has opened her eyes to the light, and it is 
our ardent wish that you may one day follow her 
example.” 

“ What ! you dare to talk so to me ?” cried the 
chief darting a ferocious look on the courageous girl. 
“ You do not know me, then ?” 

“ It is precisely because I know you too well that 
I wish to see you changed.” 

“ Miserable creature, I believe you mean to insult 
me !” 

“ I obey the inspirations of Christian charity, and 
not those of hatred or contempt. Christ forgave His 
executioners on the cross ; He prayed for them ; His 
disciples ought to imitate Him.” 

“I estimate at their full value these hypocritical 
protestations, and I am not mad enough to trust 
them. You shall learn to your cost that no one de- 
spises my authority with impunity. Your mother, too, 
shall soon have to account for her treachery. Hot 
content with renouncing our traditions, she has re- 
vealed our secrets.’! 


THE FTl’TEEjKfTH CENTCRY. 


Ill 


“ Our mother has acted conscientiously ; she had 
only in view to obey God.” 

“ She made important disclosures, I know.” 

“We have no interest in denying it.” 

“ What did she tell you ?” 

“ She told us her life. Judith has, doubtless, been 
guilty ; but in the eyes of the Lord, sincere repent- 
ance effaces a multitude of sins.” 

“ If your God has forgiven her, I will not be so in- 
dulgent. I will punish her for having revealed the 
secrets of the past.” 

“ She is no longer in your power.” 

“ You shall conduct me immediately to the place 
whither you have conveyed her.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“Are you not afraid to disobey me?” cried the 
chief with increasing fury. 

“We discharge a duty in taking from you the 
means of disturbing the last moments of a dying 
woman.” 

“ Know that I will employ force, if necessary, to 
compel you to reveal Judith’s hiding-place.” 

“You are master of our bodies, but not of our 
wills.” 

Lenor Eschol half drew the poignard hidden in his 
belt ; but he restrained himself, and pushed back the 
weapon into its leathern sheath. He rapidly approached 
an iron-bound chest, put a key in the enormous lock, 
opened it, and took out a phial filled with liquid of a 
pale red. He went straight to the two girls, and 


112 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


fixing on them a look of intense hatred, he said in a 
voice hoarse with anger : 

“ You see this potion ? it is a deadly poison which 
I keep for extreme cases. You shall tell me your 
secret, or perish.’^ 

Jenny and Meryem, their arms intertwined, pale 
but resolute, kept silence. 

“ Do you consent to inform me of Judith’s retreat ?” 
asked Lenor. 

“We refuse,” answered the two girls simultaneously. 

“ Are you quite decided ?” 

“We are.^’ 

“ Is that your last word ?” 

“We have nothing more to say.” 

“ Then you must die,” cried the bandit in a thun- 
dering voice. 

“ Sister,” said Jenny, turning to her companion, 
“ let us be courageous, and generously offer to God 
the sacrifice He demands of us. To give one’s life 
for a motive of charity, is to win a bright crown in 
the heavens with the martyr’s palm.” 

“We will do our duty, with the grace of the Lord,” 
replied M6ryem. 

And the two sisters, throwing themselves into each 
other’s arms, presented a sublime spectacle that would 
have softened men less depraved than those who con- 
templated them. They remained thus some time 
clasped in a mutual embrace, exhorting each other to 
be firm. L6nor Eschol interrupted them, saying : 

“ It is time to put an end to this.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 113 

“ Let US pray a moment,” entreated the two sisters. 

“ Be it so, but be quick about it.” 

They knelt down, and ardently implored the 
divine mercy for the wretch who was preparing to 
take their life. Soon they arose calm and composed, 
their faces bright with resolution. 

“We are ready,” they said. 

“To obey me ?” asked L6nor, astonished at this 
serenity, which he could not understand. 

“ To die,” replied the young maidens. 

No sooner had Jenny and M6ryem uttered these 
words than the chief of the Bohemians, calling Toby 
to his assistance, approached the first of the two 
sisters, and poured, by force, down her throat one- 
half the contents of the phial he held. The unfor- 
tunate girl immediately fell to the ground motionless 
and apparently lifeless. 

“ ’Tis your turn now,” said L^nor, making M6ryem 
swallow the rest of the portion. The girl fell in her 
turn beside her sister. 

Old Marah, who was present at this terrible scene, 
was so frightened by the double fall that she uttered 
a piercing cry, and dragged herself into the farthest 
corner of the dwelling. 

The chief, having finished his vile work, bent over 
the inanimate bodies of his victims ; he examined 
their pulse ; it beat no more ; he passed a glass over 
their blanched lips, but no breath tarnished its surface, 
and he arose satisfied, without the least sign of emo- 
tion. 


114 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ The drink was active,” said he to Toby ; “ so far 
all goes well.” 

Spiller expressed his satisfaction, and his master 
resumed : “ Let us now carry these two bodies into 
the secret receptacle contained in the right wall of 
this chamber.” 

The two Bohemians, taking up the maidens, on 
whose brow hovered the shades of death, in silence 
directed their steps to the place indicated by L6nor. 
The chief drew back a panel, and discovered a space 
of some five feet square. There they laid the bodies 
of the maidens ; then the secret place was carefully 
closed again. 

“ Now, what are we going to do ?” demanded Toby 
in a low voice. 

“You will remain here during my absence.” 

“ It is well.” 

“ You must not go away on any account whatever* 
You will watch attentively over this closet.” 

“ If Daniel returns, and asks for his sisters, what am 
I to say ?” 

You will try to keep him engaged till my return.” 

“ And if he wants to look for Jenny and M6ryem?” 

“ You will let him do so ; he cannot discover the 
place where we have hid them.” 

“Your instructions, master, shall be faithfully fol- 
lowed. But I would like to ask you a question.” 

“ Speak I” 

“ Whither are you going ?” 

“I am going to try to obtain some tidings of 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


115 


J udith. I must find the woman before night comes 
in order to give her up to the corsair.” 

“ Wherefore give yourself that trouble ?” 

“For fear she might denounce us. Not seeing the 
girls return, she will not fail to accuse us and try 
every means of taking them from us.” 

“ But she is very ill.” 

“ Undoubtedly. But it is always wise to take due 
precautions.” 

“ You speak well, master,” said the spy. “ They 
will be cunning, indeed, who outwit you.” 

As soon as the chief was gone, Toby installed him- 
self in the large room of the dwelling, and did not 
lose sight a moment of the closet where lay Eschol’s 
victims. Nothing came to disturb him in his watch, 
except the wind without and the incoherent words 
muttered at times by old Marah. 



116 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


•xni. 

ON BOARD THE CARVEL. 

Lenor Eschol did not appear again till after night- 
fall. 

“Have you succeeded in your search?” the spy 
eagerly demanded. 

“ I have not discovered the slightest trace,” an- 
swered the chief in a dejected tone, and throwing 
himself on a wooden bench. 

“ It is strange.” 

“ I searched all the neighborhood in vain ; I ques- 
tioned every one I met, and I have not even heard 
that any one saw Judith.” 

“ So she is not to be found ?” 

“ I fear not. But what of Daniel ; has he returned ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“At what hour ?” 

“A little before midnight.” 

“ Tell me what passed.” 

“ He asked me about his sisters ; but, seeing that 
he could draw nothing out of me, he went away.” 

“ And you have not seen him since ?” 

“ Excuse me ; he came back here again a moment 
after. He wanted to take away old Marah, which I 
opposed. Then he abruptly retired, and I tried to 
follow him ; but the attempt was not successful, for 
he wound his way so dexterously through the en- 
campment that I immediately lost track of him.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


UV 


“All this is very provoking.” 

“ I obeyed your orders the best I could ; it was not 
my fault if Daniel escaped.” 

“ I say not that it was.” 

“ In sooth, it would be wrong to hold me respon* 
sible for your blunder.” 

“ Did Daniel ask for me ?” 

“ No ; but I thought he seemed as though he would 
like to have seen you.” 

“ I prefer not to have met him. He would, doubt- 
less, have demanded explanations ; he might have 
availed himself, to intimidate me, of the influence he 
exercises over the tribe, and I might have found it 
hard to resist him.” 

. “Yet you told me to try and keep him engaged 
till your return.” 

“ That is true ; but I had a project in my head. 
Profiting by the return of night, I would have had 
some of our trusty fellows take him and carry him off*. 
Did you remark anything else worth telling me ?” 

“ I have told you all.” 

“ It suflSces.” 

“ What orders have you to give me ?” 

“ Listen ; the moment approaches when we are to 
give up the girls to the corsair.” 

“Yes ; the Moor is to come ashore at midnight.” 

“ I have just thought of something.*’ 

“ What is it ?” 

“ That we would all do well to go on board the 
pirate’s carvel.” 


118 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ Why that project, which appears to me a haza^ . 
OHS one 

“Because I see little chance of extricating oi 
selves by any other means from the danger thi. 
threatens us on land.” 

“ I do but half understand you.” 

“ It is certain that we shall soon be denounced to 
the magistrates, if we are not already.” 

“ I admit that.” 

“ Perchance preparations are now being made to 
surround us, and then We cannot escape the hands of , 
our enemies.” ‘ i 

“ It is true.” ; 

“ If it be so, we have no other means of safety ; 
than to embark on the Barbary vessel, with our bag- 
gage and the fruits of our industry. In that way,^ 
by means of a moderate compensation, we shall save^ 
our persons and our goods. Besides, there is no use 
in denying it, a longer sojourn in France is impassible^ 
for us. Terrible decrees are out against us, and it is 
only in two or three districts like this that we are not 
exposed to be hunted like wild beasts.” j 

“But,” objected Toby Spiller, “do you not fear to^, 
trust these Moors ?” 

“hTotatall.” 

“Yet they are robbers, sea rovers, the terror nf 
fishing craft, and even of ships of heavy burden.” f ^ 

“ And we,” replied the chief with a bitter laug. J 
“ what are we but land rovers ? Make your mil 
easy ; the captain appears to me a man on whom on | 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


119 


in count ; we will pay him the price of our passage, 
id he will not forget that our origin and our religion 
"re but little different. I would rather, at worst, fall 
’uto the hands of the pirates than those of French 
magistrates.” 

At last the spy yielded to Lenor’s reasons. He de- 
clared that he fully approved of his plan8,^and urged 
liim to put themipromptly into execution. 

Strengthened still more in his resolution by Toby’s 
assent, to which he attached great importance, the 
chief of the Bohemians announced to Spiller that he 
was going to give the signal to the families composing 
the tribe to pack up in all haste. “ After that,” said 
he, I will repair to the shore to await the corsair.” 

“ What shall I do during your absence ?” inquired 
Toby, who never acted without the express orders of 
yjm master. 

“ Continue your watch here, and at the same time 
l«|>mmence your preparations for our departure.” 

“ You shall be obeyed,” answered the spy. 

And he went to work immediately rolling up the 
oailvas, the coverlits^ the furs, and packing the other 
idBEhcts belonging to the duke of the Bohemians. 

L6nor, having given the signal for preparation, and 
put all the camp in motion, took his way rapidly 
[towards the shore. The sea was a little calmer, yet 
e wind still blew strongly. Eschol waited two 
Jours on the beach for the pirate. 

- All at once he thought he could distinguish a black 
ijpeok on the waves, increasing very fast, and ap- 


120 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


preaching the shore. Soon a brilliant light shone out 
through one of the port-holes of the carvel, purpled 
the waves a moment, and vanished. L6nor, who had 
provided himself with a torch, lit it, waved it a mo- 
ment in the air, then extinguished it under his feet. 

This was the signal agreed upon. 

Almost at the same moment several boat-loads of 
pirates reached the shore, in froi^ of the Bohemian 
chief. The captain , Abdi-Rhaman, first leaped ashore, 
and advanced to Eschol whilst his people landed. 

L6nor, astonished at the numerous troop brought 
by the corsair, conceived some anxiety. Still betook 
care not to show it. 

“ You are punctual to time,” said the pirate ac- 
costing the Bohemian. 

“ I owe you the same compliment, lord Moor,” an- 
swered Eschol. 

“ Does our bargain hold ?” 

“ Yes, but only in part, I regret to say, but the 
fault is not mine.” 

“ You break your word,” said the corsair, knitting 
his brow. 

“ Suffer me to finish ; you shall see that I am no 
wise guilty of disloyalty. In the first place, you shall 
have the two maidens I promised you.” 

“ So far well, and our agreement remains intact.” 

“Not quite; the woman and the young man of 
whom I spoke to you have withdrawn from under 
my authority; consequently, I am unable to give 
them up to you.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 121 

“ It matters little, provided I have the two slaves 
about whom we have treated. 

“ I pledge m}'self anew to deliver them to you.” 

“ I ask no more.” 

“ I will even give them up to you gratuitously.” 

“ That is a piece of generosity to which I am not 
accustomed,” rejoined the pirate, suddenly waxing 
suspicious. “ To what motive am I to ascribe it ?’ 

“ It is that I have a petition to address to you.” 

“ Speak freely.” 

“ Our safety is gravely compromised on the con- 
tinent. It is necessary that I should leave France 
immediately with my tribe. Th^ land route would 
be very dangerous for us.” 

“ In other words,” interrupted the Moor, “ you 
wish to go on board my carvel ?” 

“ Precisely, and I will be most grateful to you if 
you consent to receive me and mine.” 

“ I will do it willingly.” 

“ Where will you land us ?” 

“ I was to touch at one of the Italian ports to land 
your son ; I will do so still if that will suit you.” 

“ It will, perfectly. Besides the two maidens, what 
price do you ask for the passage ?” 

“ Only a gold crown for each person.” 

“ Be it so ; we shall pay going on board.” 

“ How many passengers will you be ?” 

“About fourscore, children included. We have, 
besides, horses and wagons.” 


122 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ My ship is large ; it will hold all your people and 
their baggage. Warn them without delay.” 

“ They are all in readiness by this time.” 

“ Let us go for them immediately,” said the pirate. 

And saying these words, he bent his steps towards 
the camp, accompanied by Lenor, and followed by 
his men. Bohemians and pirates past unheeded by 
the tower of St. Germined, whose warder slept as 
soundly as on the previous night, and in less than 
half an hour reached the huts of the Egyptians. 

All was ready for the departure. These adventur- 
ers were endowed with a marvellous activity, and 
they were so accustomed to vagabondism, that pack- 
ing up for a march was only sport to them. 

L6nor conducted the Moorish captain to his dwell- 
ing. Toby Spiller came to receive them; but the 
spy was in great agitation ; he accosted his master 
with a frightened air : the wretch was trembling in 
every limb. 

“ What is the matter ?” demanded Eschol alarmed. 

“ Strange things are going on here. Satan himself 
must be at the bottom of it all.” 

“ Tell me quickly what it is ; we have no time to 
lose.” 

“ The bodies of the maidens have disappeared.” 

“ May Heaven confound you, bird of ill omen !” 
cried the Bohemian, mad with rage, and striking the 
ground with his foot; “you have allowed them to 
be carried off by your neglect.” 

“ I swear by all the powers of heaven that I have 7 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


123 


kept watch over them all the time,” protested the 

spy- 

“I have been mistaken in you,” said the chief, 
throwing a contemptuous look on Spiller ; “ you are 
but a blockhead, after all, and I was wrong in in- 
trusting you with a mission of importance.” 

Toby hung his head without replying. The Moor- 
ish captain, thinking himself trifled with, began to 
show his dissatisfaction, and told his men to look to 
their arms. 

These menacing precautions were not very encour- 
aging to L^nor. Still he endeavored to put a good 
face on the matter, and explained matters in the best 
way he could to the corsair, who was somewhat 
mollified. 

“Well! since I find myself dissappointed,” said 
the captain, “ it is just that I should indemnify my- 
self by raising the price of your passage.” 

“ It is only natural,” said Ldnor. 

“ I asked only a crown a head.” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Now I must have twenty.” 

“You want to ruin us,” said L4nor piteously. 

“Ask no reduction; I will make none.” 

The chief of the Bohemians, who saw himself at - 
the pirate’s mercy, was obliged to accede to the hard 
conditions imposed on him. Abdi-Rhaman added 
with an ironical smile : 

“ Of course you will give me this wretched servant, 
who allowed my slaves to be carried off*.” 


124 


THE BOHEMIA?JS IN 


“ You will oblige me by taking him,” replied Ld- 
nor ; “ you will thus save me the trouble of punishing 
him.” 

In vain did Toby Spiller protest that he was free 
by birth and implore his master’s pity. Eschol hand- 
ed him over to the pirates, who established their au- 
thority over him by throttling him. 

Then the corsair, having been paid the sum agreed 
on, ordered the Bohemians to march silently and in 
good order towards the shore, whither his men were 
to escort them. 

The tents were all folded, and the sheds, taken 
apart, placed on the wagons. In a few minutes the 
chief’s dwelling was taken away. Two hours later 
the Bohemians assembled on the shore, embarked in 
succession, without the warders on St. Germined’s 
Tower suspecting anything. 

On the morrow, at daybreak, the African pirate, 
having gained the high sea, steered for Italy, bearing 
away on his carvel the whole tribe of the Bohemians. 
Of the encampment there remained only some worm- 
eateu boards and some confused rubbish not worth 
the taking away. 

The inhabitants of St. Germined, at sight of the 
desert which reigned over the place, late so animated, 
could not get over their surprise. They walked hither 
and thither over the ground trampled and beaten 
down by the Bohemians, asking each other how those 
strangers could have disappeared so suddenly, and 
what way they had gone. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


125 


On examining some wretched shelter left standing, 
two burghers of the town discovered old Marah, 
crouched on a little straw, abandoned by L6nor. 
With many efforts they succeeded in drawing from 
the unhappy woman some indications as to the route 
taken by the Bohemians. 

It was, indeed, time for the brigands to quit the 
country ; the very day after their departure the 
agents of justice, who unceasingly pursued them on 
the French territory, arrived at St, Germined. They 
could but convince themselves of the flight of the Bo- 
hemians and the negligence of the warders on the 
tower by the shore. 



126 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


XIV. 

IN THE BUINS. 

Let us return to the vault where we left Judith 
alone, awaiting the return of those whom she styled 
her daughters. Daniel was the first she saw enter, in 
company with the venerable Father Hermanfred. 
The young man was surprised to find his sisters ab- 
sent ; and the sick woman, whom he first questioned 
by a look, appeared much alarmed. 

“Mother, where are Jenny and M^ryem?” de- 
manded Daniel. 

“You forgot old Marah in the encampment, and at 
my request they went in search of her.” 

“Are they long gone?” 

“ Several hours.” 

“Ah ! my God ! some mischief has certainly befallen 
them. Mother, whilst this good monk is with you, 
let me go and see how it is with them.” 

Instead of urging her son to go, the sick woman 
begged him to remain with her a few moments. 

“ Know you not,” cried the impatient youth, “ that 
the hours are precious, and that every passing minute 
may bring an irreparable misfortune ?” 

“ In broad daylight who would dare, not even the 
miserable cause of most of my misfortunes, to attack 
two young girls such as they ? Daniel, I have a favor 
to ask of you.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


127 


“ What would you of me, O my mother ?” 

“ You will not refuse me the last consolation I ex- 
pect from you?” 

“ I will do all you wish. Command, I obey !” 

“Last night you promised me to embrace the 
Christian faith.” 

“I will keep my word. I will even add that I 
ardently desire to receive baptism.” 

“Prepare yourself, then, and if the Father who 
deigns to come and assist me in my last moments sees 
no obstacle, I will beg of him to grant you the grace 
of the august sacrament in my presence.” 

“ I will be happy to profess the same religion as you. 
If this minister of the Lord deems me worthy to en- 
ter the Church on this day, I will only regret the ab- 
sence of my sisters, whose kind hearts would rejoice 
in my conversion.” 

Judith embraced her son weeping. The good 
friar, having questioned him, found him sufficiently 
instructed. The fact was that having lived amongst 
Christians, Daniel knew a portion of the truths which 
religion teaches. 

Hermanfred gave some advice to the ardent young 
man, and, judging him in a state to receive baptism, 
he conferred it on him without hesitation. Then, 
whilst Daniel knelt collected in prayer, returning 
thanks to God, the monk addressed to the sick wo- 
man some words of consolation, blessed her, and re- 
turned hastily to Seilhac, where the functions of his 
holy ministry required his presence. 


128 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


Scarcely was Father Hermanfred gone, when Ju- 
dith called her son and said to him : 

“ Child, you can go now in search of your sisters. 
I hope God will bless your efforts.” 

Daniel did not need to be told twice ; he darted 
immediately out of the vaults, and bent his course 
towards the encampment of the Bohemians. 

He arrived there, as we have said, during the ab- 
sence of Lenor ; having presented himself a first time 
at his father’s dwelling, he met only Toby Spiller. 
Hot perceiving his Sisters, he suspected that something 
bad had happened, and that thought overwhelmed 
him. Nevertheless, concealing his anguish as best he 
could, he summoned up all his coolness and sagacity. 

The questions he addressed to the spy having no 
satisfactory result, he left the house to go through 
the encampment. 

Ho vestige of the girls meeting his eyes anywhere, 
he sat down sad at heart in a quiet spot and began 
to refiect. 

Daniel’s mind was singularly penetrating. A cer- 
tain something in Toby’s face, some cunning looks of 
his, recurred to the young man’s mind, and he guessed 
something of the truth. 

Having returned to the house under pretence of 
taking away old Marah, he questioned Spiller anew, 
studied attentively the wretch’s manoeuvres, and, 
seeing him turn his eyes incessantly towards the 
same point of the partition, he guessed the existence 
of the closet. His decision was soon made. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTO RT. 


129 


Having abruptly ended bis conversation with Toby, 
he feigned to retire and go out through the encamp- 
ment. Perceiving that he was watched, he contrived 
to double on the spy, and secretly returned to prowl 
around the house. The concourse of visitors which 
thronged the Bohemian camp served his purpose 
well. 

Seizing the moment when Spiller was engaged at 
the farther end of the room, Daniel unfastened a plank 
and darted a rapid glance into the secret closet with- 
in. He started at first in horror and surprise on see- 
ing the inanimate bodies of the two young girls. 
Nevertheless, after a moment’s reflection, he began to 
recover himself again, for he knew most of the strange 
secrets of the Bohemians. 

It is not without a motive,” thought he, “ that 
these bodies are kept so carefully ; there is some 
deep-laid scheme here. But I will get to the bottom 
of it. I will convey my sisters to the vault at any 
cost.” 

Suiting the action to the idea, he went to work 
with all the caution which the circumstances required. 
Having convinced himself that Toby was but half 
attentive, and that he was even conversing with an- 
other Bohemian, he enlarged the opening he had 
made in the partition, carried off the two bodies in 
succession, wrapped them up as best he could in a 
large coverlit, laid them on his shoulders, and boldly 
marched through the Bohemian camp. Having 
crossed its boundaries unmolested and unnoticed, he 


130 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


took the way to the ruins, walking as rapidly as his 
heavy load permitted. He reached the vault pant- 
ing and exhausted, and was obliged to lay dovm his 
burden at the entrance to draw breath. 

There, having thrown himself a moment on the bare 
ground, he reflected that it would be imprudent to 
show Judith the two girls in the state they were in. 
He went alone, therefore, to the sick woman. 

The Bohemian, notwithstanding her weakness, 
raised herself on her couch on seeing her son enter. 

“ Have you succeeded, Daniel ?” she said in a fail- 
ing voice. 

“ Yes, I have found Jenny and M^ryem,” answered 
the young man with some embarrassment. 

“ Let them approach, that I may see them one last 
time, those angels to whom I shall owe eternal hap- 
piness.” 

“ Unhappily they are not able to come at this mo- 
ment ; the treatment they have received has left them 
unable to support themselves.” 

“ Alas ! L6nor has killed them.” 

“Hot so; I hope they will come to themselves 
again.” 

“I understand,” said Judith. 

After a pause, during which a tear rolled down her 
cheek, she added : 

“ I shall see them no more in this world, but I shall 
await them above.” 

Daniel kept silence. The sick woman resumed : 

“ Have you brought Marah ?” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


131 


“ No, but I have seen her.” 

“Now, then, O my son,” pursued Judith, whose 
glassy eye seemed to flash one last gleam ; “ now, 
then, hear my last words ; I am going to declare to 
you my dying will, and I entreat you to fulfil it.” 

“ Whatsoever you command I will faithfully exe- 
cute,” said Daniel. 

“ Well !” continued the dying Bohemian, “ you will 
take care of Marah as you would of myself, for her 
blood flows in your veins. Never seek to punish 
your father ; the religion of Christ to which you 
henceforth belong, condemns revenge ; it even com- 
mands you to forgive your enemies and do good to 
them. Tell him rather that on her death -bed the un- 
fortunate Judith forgot the treatment she received, 
the wrongs he unceasingly inflicted upon her, and 
that she prayed for him at the moment of leaving this 
world. You will add that the Christian law has 
power to reinstate the greatest criminals before God, 
when they embrace it, fulfil its precepts, and repent 
sincerely. 

“Your wishes shall be punctually fulfilled; I will 
faithfully conform to them.” 

“I expected no less from your generous heart. 
Your filial piety is incomparable.” 

“ I accomplish a duty.” 

“ Now,” resumed the sick woman, “ I bequeath to 
you as a sacred heritage, Jenny and Meryem, if God 
perserves their life; you will protect and defend 
them.” 


132 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“My affection for my sisters makes that duty a 
pleasure.” 

. “ There is an important revelation which I owe to 
you, O my son, and still more to the two girls. I 
have too long delayed ; but I hope my strength will 
permit me to go through with it. Come nearer ; my 
voice becomes every moment weaker.” 

Daniel bent over his mother’s bed, and almost 
glued his ear to her lips, for her life was ebbing fast 
away. 

“Jenny and M4ryem are not your sisters,” said 
Judith. 

The young man started, and made a gesture of 
astonishment. 

“It is impossible,” he murmured; “the fraternal 
affection I feel for them contradicts your words, O 
my mother !” 

“ I protest I have told you the truth,” said Judith 
in a voice already choked by the death-rattle. “ Lenor 
and I never had a child but you.” 

Daniel w’as much affected on learning that no tie 
of kindred connected him with the two girls. 

“ Jenny and Meryem are not even sisters,” added 
the dying woman. “One is the daughter of the 
king and queen of our tribe, who died when .we were 
coming to France the first time ; the other was car- 
ried off by your father, from the village of La Cha- 
pelle, near Paris, during the landit fair ” 

The young man heard this declaration with amaze- 
ment. His mother wanted to continue ; but her voice 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


133 


had quite failed her, the words expired on her lips. 
She had but strength to throw a parting look on 
Daniel, and murmur the sacred names of Jesus and 
Mary ; then her eyes closed, and her head fell back 
inanimate on her couch, Judith had breathed her 
last. 

Daniel at first thought it was a swoon ; but soon 
the Bohemian’s legs began to stiffen, and the young 
man perceived that all was over. Overwhelmed 
with grief he dropped his head on his breast and 
melted into tears : he had lost in one day his mother 
and probably his sisters. 

Yet the thought of the Christian’s God, to whom 
he had but a few hours belonged, consoled him. He 
ardently invoked the Lord, and resignation revisiting 
his soul alleviated his keen anguish. He printed a 
last kiss on Judith’s pale brow, and moved away a 
few paces from that mournful scene. 

Then the remembrance of Jenny and M^ryem re- 
curred to his mind. He remembered that he had 
left them inanimate at the entrance of the vault, and 
he ran to seek them. He could now take them in 
without alarming his mother. So Daniel brought 
the two bodies and laid them on the floor in the 
death-chamber. Then, by the dim light of a lamp, 
he contemplated them in mournful silence. 

‘‘ Which of these two young girls,” he asked him- 
self, “is the stranger carried off by Ldnor Eschol? 
Which is of the race of our last king ? Alas ! my 
mother was unable to explain herself fully, and she 


134 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


carries a part of her secret with her to the grave. 
How am I to succeed in restoring to her parents the 
victim carried off from the landit fair ? they are 
both alike. Moreover, they both continue motion- 
less ; who knows if they have not already become the 
prey of pitiless death 

Kneeling beside the unhappy girls, and bending 
over their motionless faces, Daniel regarded them 
with indescribable grief All at once he gave a cry 
of joy ; by certain unmistakeable signs he discovered 
that his adopted sisters were only sunk in a lethargic 
slumber. 

Reflecting on this he remembered that several Bo- 
hemians, and especially L6nor, possessed the secret 
of a beverage which had the power of giving the ap- 
pearance of death to those who took it. He under- 
stood that a potion of this kind had been adminis- 
tered to J enny and Meryem, for a purpose which he 
could not divine. 

These reflections tranquillized him a little. He 
sat down between his dead mother and his adopted 
sisters, as they, too, lay apparently lifeless, and he 
prayed as the monk of Seilhac had taught him. 

Hext day, judging it necessary to know what was 
passing in the Bohemian encampment, he quitted 
the vault, and directed his course to the hill at the 
foot of which the huts of the adventurers rose the 
day before. 

Even before he reached the place he heard of the 
mysterious departure of the tribe, and the thousand 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTERT. 


135 


suppositions afloat on the subject. Pursuing his way 
he visited the camp ground, and perceived old Marah, 
who was, as we have said, left behind. The unfor- 
tunate old woman, sitting at the edge of a ditch, ap- 
peared insensible to her deserted state, and regarded 
Daniel with a vacant eye. 

Still, she recognized her grandson. The young 
man made her stand up, and, taking a lonely by-way, 
brought her to the vault. There he questioned her ; 
but he was long in getting at the truth, amid the 
chaos of her vague and incoherent answers. At last 
he found out a part of what had taken place in his 
absence. He understood that Ldnor, doubtless fear- 
ing the importunities of the girls, had given them a 
powerful narcotic, so that being deprived of sense 
and feeling, he might the more easily convey them 
wherever he pleased. Daniel’s conjectures were per- 
fectly correct, as we know. 

Meanwhile the young man awaited in increasing 
and almost indescribable anxiety the awaking of 
Jenny and Meryem. He trembled, seeing how the 
lethargy continued, lest death should succeed to this 
forced sleep. In vain did he try to drive away this 
afflicting thought ; it returned incessantly to torment 
him. 

At length, at the end of the third day, Meryem 
opened her eyes. Daniel ran to her and cautiously 
raised her head. Then, as she was recovering but 
slowly from that lethargic state, he shook her quickly 
and she was soon quite awake. 


136 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


Jenny, in her turn, gave sign of life. By the cares 
of the young Bohemian both girls were soon able to 
sit up. They appeared astonished, and looked suc- 
cessively from Daniel to old Marah, and the lifeless 
form of Judith lying within two paces of where they 
sat. The old woman seemed to recover a little con- 
sciousness, and showed some joy on seeing the girls 
restored to life. As the latter strove in vain to com- 
prehend what had passed, and why they found them- 
selves in a vault, Daniel spoke. 

“ Beturn thanks to God,” said he, “ for He has 
watched over you, and prevented you from becoming 
the victims of evil purposes.” 

“ What has happened, then ?” they asked at once. 

“ I am going to explain to you.” 

And having seated them, he told them of the de- 
parture of the tribe, Judith’s end, and their own 
lethargy. These details reminded them of the scene 
which preceded their swoon ; they described to 
Daniel their last interview with L6nor, and proved 
to him that he was not mistaken in his conjectures. 

But great was the sorrow of Jenny and Mdryem 
when they knew that Judith was dead, which fact the 
lifeless body before them left them no room to doubt. 
They approached the corpse, already livid and ghastly, 
tenderly and reverently kissed the pallid brow, shed 
abundant tears, and knelt to pray. 

The first thing to be considered was the decent inter- 
ment of Judith’s mortal remains. Daniel himself dug 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


137 


his mother’s grave in the floor of the vault, and there 
he respectfully laid the corpse. He covered the grave 
with a large stone from the ruins, and on it he en- 
graved a cross. 



138 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


XV. 

RETURN TO PARIS, 

After having rendered the last sad duties to his 
mother, Daniel made the two girls acquainted with 
the dying revelations of Judith. He informed them 
that they were not his sisters, and added : 

“Nevertheless, my mother earnestly besought me 
to watch over you and protect you as a brother. Al- 
though my affection for you rendered such charges 
unnecessary, still the dying injunctions of my mother 
gave, if I may say so, a more sacred title to our rela- 
tions ; for you considered her as your mother, and 
she, in that short interval beginning with the hour of 
her reconciliation with God, and ending with her 
death, showed a mother’s affection towards you. 
There existed between you, therefore, the tie of a 
holy adoption, the memory of which shall be ever en- 
graved on my heart. Jenny, M6ryem, I will not de- 
sert you.” 

The girls heard Daniel with an interest easy to 
imagine. Touched by the young man’s noble and 
generous sentiments, they exclaimed with one voice : 

“Although we belong to different families, we will 
still continue to call you our brother ; for you are 
truly so, if not by right of birth, at least by that of 
affection. Brother, do not refuse to call us your 
sisters !” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


139 


“ Your words overwhelm me with joy,’' cried 
Daniel. “ My beloved sisters, my life shall be hence- 
forth devoted to you, and I will justify the title you 
offer me by endeavoring to repair the wrong done 
you by my parents. And he held out a hand to each. 

But Jenny and Mdryem could not recover from 
their astonishment at what they had just learned. In 
vain did they search their early recollections, they 
could find there no trace of the facts related by Daniel. 
The first years of their life were lost in a dim and 
shadowy haze. Time and the events of their wander- 
ing life had effaced all. Moreover, J udith’s narrative, 
cut short by death, left it uncertain which of the two 
girls TYas French. 

On the evening of the day when Jenny and 
Meryem had recovered from their lethargic sleep, 
Daniel having gone out to gather honeycombs, had 
repaired to the town with the intention of buying 
some other provisions. He there heard of the ar- 
rival of the constables. He thought it necessary to 
make this known to his adoptive sisters, and did not 
conceal from them the uneasiness he felt. 

“ What have we to fear,” asked Meryem, “ since we 
have never done any harm ?” 

“Your conscience is, doubtless, at ease; you have 
had no share in the excesses committed by our tribe. 
For myself, thank God, I can safely aver that I have 
never been guilty of any crime. But still we lived 
amongst the Bohemians who are now under the ban 
of justice.” 


140 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ That can be no reason for believing us guilty of 
their crimes.” 

“ I admit that ; but still in the eyes of the law we 
will necessarily be held for accomplices in acts with 
which we had nothing to do. They will make us re- 
sponsible for numberless robberies, sacrileges, and 
other odious crimes committed by our band wherever 
it has passed. Public hatred will pursue us, like the 
other Bohemians, with relentless fury.” 

“We will protest our innocence,” said Jenny in her 
turn. 

“ They will not believe us.” 

“ Wherefore ?” inquired the girl ; “ we will declare 
that we are Christians.” 

“Our companions have too .much abused that 
sacred name, of which they have made a hypocritical 
mask to practice their deplorable trade; they will 
accuse us of profaning once more the religion of Jesus 
Christ.” 

“ What is going to become of us ?” sighed M^ryem. 
“We cannot remain much longer in this vault.” 

“ I have already been thinking of quitting it.” 

“ What do you propose doing, brother ?” 

“ I have some money, and I mean, first of all, to 
purchase other garments for us.” 

“ After that, what do you think of doing ?” 

“ I will procure some merchandise which we shall 
try to sell going through France.” 

“ The idea seems to me a good one,” observed 
Jenny ; “ when is it to be put into execution ?” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 141 

“ As soon as possible. We shall set out as soon as 
we have other garments.” 

“ What sort of clothes shall we take ?” 

“ I will disguise myself as a pedlar, and you will 
clothe yourselves in a manner suitable to that. I 
will present you as my sisters, and old Marah as 
our grandmother. In that way, we may escape suspi- 
cion.” 

“ Whither shall we direct our course ?” asked 
Meryem. 

“We will try to reach Paris.” 

“ Would it not be better to quit France, where the 
edicts against the Bohemians are so rigorous ?” 

“We have strong reasons for remaining in this 
country.” 

“ What are they !” 

“ My mother, when dying, told me that one of you 
had been carried off from the neighborhood of Paris, 
near the village of La Chapelle. It is, therefore, 
necessary, in order to clear up the mystery which 
overhangs that event, that we should visit the envi- 
rons of the great city. There is somewhere a family 
in mourning, which it is our duty to console, if we 
can.” , 

“ Very true,” said Jenny, “ it is fitting that we seek ' 
to repair the wrong committed. Let us hope that 
Providence will bless our endeavors. I have a pre- 
sentiment that they shall one day be crowned with 
success.” 

“ So w'e are all agreed on that point ?” 


142 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“Perfectly,” answered both girls. “ Your project 
is wise and rational.” 

Strong in the approval of his companions, the 
young man immediately busied himself with prepara- 
tions for the journey. At the end of some days, 
having brought the garments to the vault, he quitted, 
with Marah, Jenny, and Mdryem, the Bohemian cos- 
tume, and thought only of getting away from St. 
Germined. 

One morning Daniel, his grandmother and his 
adopted sisters, mounted a one horse carriole full of 
merchandise, and set forward. 

In this equipage the travellers journeyed to Paris, 
which it took them two months to reach. They were 
obliged to use great caution, for the Egyptians being 
severely proscribed were carefully sought out, and 
when discovered, were severely punished. On reach- 
ing the capital, Daniel and his companions hired two 
small rooms in a retired street, and there settled them- 
selves in the best way they could. 

Ever since they were separated from the band of 
Egyptians, Lenor’s son and his sisters led the most 
regular life, scrupulously fulfilling all the duties of re- 
ligion. ^The liberty of doing good, the escape from 
a depraved surrounding, the peace they enjoyed, ren- 
dered them so happy, that they desired nothing more 
in this world. Under the influence of this new ex- 
istence, old Marah gradually recovered the lucidity of 
her mind, and began again to take some interest in 
the things of life. 


TUE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


143 


A short time after their arrival in Paris, J enny and 
M^ryem requested Daniel to take them to St. Denis 
and La Chapelle, where each of them hoped to find 
a father, a mother, a family. Neither one nor the 
other wished to be the child of the Bohemians ; the 
most obscure birth, provided it was Christian, ap- 
peared to them preferable. 

To satisfy the legitimate wish of his adopted sisters, 
the young man one day prepared his carriole, loaded 
it with divers wares, put Jenny and Mdryem into it, 
and took the way to St. Denis. It was not without 
emotion that the girls trod the soil of the vast plain 
where the landit lair was held, and breathed that air 
which to one of them, at least, was native air. 

The three former members of the Bohemian tribe 
passed through the streets of St. Denis and those of 
several adjoining villages, everywhere making in- 
quiries, but without success. At last they came to La 
Chapelle, and there their search had no better suc- 
cess. Despairiug of finding what they sought, they 
ceased to ask any questions. Reaching one of the 
last houses they stopped ; a woman had made a sign 
to them that she wanted to buy some things. 

It was the dwelling of Master Etienne Belval, and 
Annette, Jeanne’s nurse, appeared on the threshold. 
Daniel went to the door to show his wares. 

During this time, Jenny and Meryem regarded with 
curious eyes the spacious mansion, little dreaming 
that one of them had there, under that opulent roof, 
a father, a mother, weeping her loss for years long. 


144 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


Neither did it ever occur to Master Belval and his 
wife that their beloved daughter so long wept in vain 
was at that moment under their windows. 

Annette’s purchases finished, Daniel got into the 
carriole again, and the horse bore away towards Paris 
the young man and his adoptive sisters. They had 
reached their destination without suspecting it. It 
was the will of God that the mystery half revealed at 
Judith’s death-bed should not yet be revealed. 

Daniel and his companions, discouraged by this ill 
success, and not knowing how to accomplish their 
end, gave up for the time all thoughts of continuing 
their search. Besides, it was requisite that they 
should devote themselves exclusively to their little 
traffic, which barely gave them a living. 



THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


145 


XYI. 

AT SEA. 

Whilst Daniel and his adopted sisters decided on 
’•epairing to Paris, and accomplished their project as 
we have related, Abdi-Rhaman’s carvel put out to 
sea, bearing away the tribe of Bohemians. Lenor 
Eschol and his band were at first well treated ; they 
were welcomed by the crew, and the captain appeared 
most attentive to their chief. 

Lenor, in accordance with the agreement made 
with the pirate, thought to sail towards Italy. But, 
after the lapse of four or five days, he discovered 
that the corsair was deceiving him, and was steering 
right for the African coast. 

The duke of the Bohemians, uneasy at this act of 
signal bad faith, thought it his duty to remonstrate 
with the commander of the carvel; he repaired to 
his cabin, and said to him : 

“ Lord Moor, you are not steering for the coast of 
the Peninsula, as you promised us on land.” 

“ What has put such an idea into your mind de- 
manded the pirate with an equivocal smile. 

“ I am well aware of the course you are now taking.” 

“ You know nothing of navigation,” answered 
Abdi-Rliaman with a contemptuous slirug of the 
shoulders, and he turned his back on the Bohemian. 

“Allow me to insist,” said L6nor in a tone of vexa- 
tion ; “ I see clearly that you want to impose on me.” 


146 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


‘‘ I ! not the least in the world.” 

“ I am not so ignorant of nautical affairs as to con- 
found the African line with that of Italy.” 

“ You are in error.” 

“ I maintain what I have affirmed.” 

“Your mistake lies in imagining that a Barhary 
vessel steers like a Christian vessel,” observed the 
corsair in a jeering tone. 

“ IsTautical rules are everywhere the same, and I 
cannot accept such an excuse. To turn one’s back on 
the proposed end was never a means of attaining it.” 

“ Since you suspect me, I am willing to justify my- 
self. I steer to the southwest in order to double 
more easily the southern point of the island of Sar- 
dinia.” 

“ It would have been shorter to bear right on Italy ; 
I know of nothing that prevented you, and it was 
agreed between us.” 

“ It is easy to direct a voyage when one incurs no 
responsibility.” 

“ Good sense inspired me with the observations I 
have made.” 

“You seem to be very simple.” 

“ It is easier to jest than to reply.” 

“ How ! do you, a robber chief, imagine that I, a 
Barbary pirate, will, in order to convey you to the 
Peninsula, steer right into the Corsican channel, or 
that I wo. lid be so mad as to get into the Straits of 
Bonifacio, the very highway of Christian vessels ? In 
sooth, that were something curious.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


147 


There was no answering this. Eschol began to 
think that the captain was acting in good faith, and 
he confessed himself mistaken. 

But, the following days, it was impossible for him 
to doubt that the corsair was steering westward; 
then Abdi-Rhaman, instead of turning back to the 
east, as the Bohemian still hoped, gave orders to steer 
directly for the Barbary coast. 

This time the corsair’s perfidy was manifest, and 
L^nor accosted him in a wrathful mood. Abdi- 
Rhaman received him with cool contempt. 

“ What means this manmuvre ?” demanded L^nor 
quickly. 

“ Have I to account to you for my actions ?” an- 
swered the pirate. 

“ Yes, in virtue of our agreement.” 

“ Of what do you complain ?” 

“ Can you seriously ask me such a question ?” 

“ I never jest.” 

“ Then I will remind you that you engaged to con- 
vey us to other shores.” 

“ I steer my vessel as I please. On board here I 
am absolute master.” 

“ Confess, then, that you are violating our stipula- 
tions ; you will, at least, have the merit of candor.” 

‘‘ You pretend to say that I am breaking my word ?” 

“ I do.” 

‘‘ Explain yourself.” 

“ Instead of taking us to Italy, as you promised, 
you are making for Africa.” 


148 


TUB BOHEMIANS IN 


“Well! if it please you better, I will confess tbe 
truth,” said the corsair with cutting irony; “ we are 
going to Tunis.” 

“ Wherefore did you deceive me ?” 

“ I follow exactly the example you recently gave 
me.” 

“ What do you mean ?” cried Lenor, dismayed to 
find himself caught in the snare. 

“ Do you not remember the bargain we made at 
St. Germlned, and the two maidens you were to de- 
liver to me ?” 

“ I have not forgotten it.” 

“ How have you fulfilled your engagements ? An- 
swer me that !” 

“ You know well it was no fault of mine ; the 
maidens escaped me.” 

“ Am I bound to believe you ?” 

“ I gave you unquestionable proofs.” 

“ What care I for your proofs. You will under- 
stand that I do not accept them.” 

“We made other arrangements, and the enormous 
sum I paid into your hands as the price of our pas- 
sage indemnifies you for the loss of those two slaves.” 

“Nothing can indemnify me for that deception. 
The sale of the damsels in Barbary was intended to 
pay the cost pf our voyage.” 

“ But it is an infamous trick you have played on 
me,” howled Eschol, beside himself with rage. 

“You may as well keep cool,” said the Moor wdth 
a malicious chuckle which suddenly enlightened the 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


149 


Bohemian chief as to the secret designs of the pi- 
rate. 

“ I understand, I understand,” he cried in a tone of 
despair ; “ you intend us to replace the two slaves.” 

‘‘ I give you joy of your penetration,” replied the 
captain in ironical accents ; “ I will count one to you 
and your companions.” 

“ So you think of selling us in Africa ?” 

“ It is my intention.” 

“ That will be a villainous act ; it will cover you 
with indellible shame.” 

“ And wherefore ? Is it not my trade ? You were 
a land rover, I am a sea rover. Each one carries on 
his trade as best he can in the element he has chosen.” 

“We will not allow ourselves to be sold without 
resistance.” 

“ You are in my power. The wisest part for you 
is to submit. Fortune is capricious ; you must learn 
to resign yourself at times to the hardships it im- 
poses.” 

Overcome by the pirates impassibility, Ldnor 
passed from threats to supplications ; but the captain 
was unmoved by one or the other. He put an end to 
the conversation by these words uttered in an impe- 
rious tone : 

“ I tell you we are but losing time in idle discus- 
sion. My determination is taken, it is irrevocable.” 

He thereupon dismissed the bandit, who retired 
with hell in his soul. 

Lenor, scarce knowing what he did, announced the 


150 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


fatal news to his companions. The Bohemians gave 
a shout of grief and rage ; they then burst into a ter- 
rible fury. They became clamorous, and maifested 
intentions not favorable to the crew of the carvel. 
The pirate ordered them to be quiet and desist from 
their hostile demonstrations. They answered defi- 
antly, grouped themselves together, and tried to mar 
and organize. Some had already laid hold of hatch- 
ets and handspikes, and were preparing to make use 
of them. 

But on a sign from the captain his two hundred 
pirates rushed upon them, disarmed them without any 
trouble, throttled them, and threw them pell mell into 
the hold. The women and children were left at lib- 
erty on the deck, where they were a prey to the 
brutal outrages of the pirates. 

Thenceforward the sea rovers kept no more terms 
with their late passengers, now their captives. The 
captain even permitted them to divide them amongst 
themselves, so as afterwards to receive the price of 
their sale. Every day the Bohemians were brought 
some hours on deck, where they could speak with 
their wives and children. 

According as the carvel approached the African 
coast, the sorrow of the adventurers increased. 
They remained on deck, moody, silent, and motion- 
less, their eyes fixed anxiously on the horizon, where 
they feared every moment to see the land appear. 
Their grief contrasted with the hilarity of the Moors, 
rejoicing to return to their own country. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


151 


At length the Tunisian coast was sighted. The 
vessel, which had stopped on its way at Bizerta, 
then at Porto-Farino, entered the port of Tunis. The 
captain, Abdi-Rhaman, brought back no booty save 
the Bohemians. He landed them immediately, and 
offered them for sale. Lenor Eschol and eight of his 
companions fell to the officers of the Bey^ who levied 
in kind the tribute on each human cargo. They were 
destined for the government woody ards. The other 
members of the band, men, women and children, were 
consigned to different masters, who drove them be- 
fore them, chained together like a herd of cattle. 

So commenced the just punishment inflicted by 
Providence on those brigands black with robbery, 
perfidy, and all manner of crimes. 



152 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


XVII. 

NEW TKIALS. 

Six months had passed since Daniel and the girls, 
with old Marah, had arrived in Paris. They inhabited 
one of the last houses in the Rue St. Denis, not far 
from the La Chapelle road, and they lived modestly 
and decently by their daily labor. 

They enjoyed that peaceful existence, blessing God 
unceasingly for having delivered them from the mis- 
eries, the vexations, and the infamy of the tribe of 
Bohemians. Jenny and M6ryem, freed from the un- 
ceasing persecutions of L6nor, had grown strong, and 
their beauty shone with full lustre. Marah likewise 
benefited by that tranquil life, notwithstanding her 
advanced age ; the state of her mind was more satis- 
factory, and she sometimes joined in conversation. 

Nothing remarkable had occurred in that happy 
household during the months of which we speak. 
Daniel and his adoptive sisters had made new inquiries 
in the direction of St. Denis. But the remembrance 
of the misfortune which had befallen Etienne Belval 
twelve years before was entirely eifaced. At last 
they began to ask each other if the child carried off 
from the landit fair, amid the immense concourse of 
people assembled from all parts of France, had been 
really born in the neighborhood of Paris, and they 
inclined to believe the contrary. They gave up all 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 153 

idea of unravelling the mystery, and left to Provi- 
dence the care of the future. 

Heaven had decreed that other trials should visit 
those virtuous souls so submissive to the divine will. 

One evening Daniel came home, as usual, after a 
day of toil. He found the table ready and covered 
with the modest repast prepared by Jenny and 
M6ryem. He sat down at the upper end, beside his 
old grandmother, and was preparing to do honor to 
the humble meal. 

Scarcely had he touched the food set before him 
when a confused noise of loud voices and clashing of 
steel was heard on the winding stairs that led to the 
lodging. 

“ What is the matter ?” said Daniel, rising in some 
uneasiness. 

“I cannot imagine,” answered Jenny, listening. 

One would say it was armed men coming up here.” 

“ God grant that nothing bad be going to happen,” 
said Meryem, turning pale. 

Just then a violent knock shook the door. The 
two girls started to their feet all trembling. Daniel 
went to open the door. 

A captain, followed by two sergeants, hastily en- 
tered the room. 

“ Our business lies here, I think,” said the officer, 
throwing a curious look around the apartment. 

“ There must be some mistake.” Daniel ventured 
to say. 

“ None whatever,” said the captain. 


154 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“What is your will, then ?” 

“Are not you Daniel Eschol ?” demanded the cap- 
tain, laying Ills large hand on the young man’s shoul- 
der. 

“ Yea, that is my name.” 

“You are the son of L6nor Eschol, chief of a Bo- 
hemian tribe ?” 

“ I will not deny it.” 

“ In that case, you must follow us.” 

“ Whither ?” 

“We have orders to arrest and conduct you to the 
Chatelet prison.” 

Of what am I accused ?” asked the young man in 
a tone of anguish ; “ I have never done hurt or harm 
to any one.” 

“ You are not ignorant,” said the captain, “ of the 
rigorous decrees which proscribe the Bohemians, 
especially in this royal city ?” 

“ I belong no more to the tribe which my father 
commanded. I live peacefully here, by my own labor, 
with my grandmother and my sisters. I do not hide 
myself, and it is easy to establish the truth of what I 
say.” 

“ It may be all true, but we have received a war- 
rant for your arrest ; our duty is to execute it to the 
letter. If you succeed in justifying yourself, so much 
the better, and we shall have no objection.” 

Saying these words, he turned to the sergeants and 
told them to seize Daniel. 

“ There is no need to use violence,” said the un- 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


155 


^appy young man ; “ I will not attempt a useless re- 
sistance.” 

And he gave himself up to the soldiers. Before 
crossing the threshold of his lodging, he turned to 
Jenny and Mcryem, where they stood trembling and 
dismayed, and he asked the captain : 

“ Do you purpose taking these women ?” 

“ Who are they ?” 

“ My sisters and my grandmother.” 

“ W e have no orders concerning them ; there is 
question only of you.” 

“ God be praised that the beings I love most in the 
world are spared,” replied Daniel. 

Then, with the officer’s permission, he addressed the 
sobbing girls : 

“ Have confidence in the Lord, dearest sisters ! 
Be courageous, and do not be cast down by adver- 
sity. It will be easy for me, I hope, to prove my in- 
nocence, and then I can return to you. Take care of 
my grandmother.” . 

Jenny and Mcryem promised, weeping, not to ne- 
glect Marah. Then Daniel bade them all a sad fare- 
well, and gave himself the signal of departure to the 
soldiers, who were not a little affected by this scene. 

An hour later the young man was shut up in a cell 
of the Chatelet, and the most cruel grief reigned in 
the place he had left. Jenny, M6ryem, and Marah her- 
self, were plunged in the deepest sorrow for the mis- 
fortune which had befallen their protector ; they feared 
that Daniel’s imprisonment might be of long duration. 


156 


THR BOHEMIANS IN 


XVIII. 

THE SENTENCE. 

His character of Bohemian had caused the arrest 
of the unfortunate Daniel. The most heinous charges 
were brought against him ; he was accused of being 
either the perpetrator or the accessory of a multi- 
tude of crimes committed during the sojourn of his 
tribe in France. 

The cunning spies, unceasingly occupied in in- 
specting the several districts of Paris, had at length 
discovered, we cannot say in what way, that a man 
bearing the name of one of the chiefs of the adven- 
turers dwelt in the capital. They had denounced 
him as having come thither in despite of the royal 
ordinances and edicts which formally forbade the 
Bohemians to abide within the city. 

After having undergone a preliminary examination, 
Daniel was brought before the judges. He strenu- 
ously denied the charges made against him, protest- 
ing his perfect innocence. 

Seeing that they did not believe him, he gave the 
clear and simple history of his life, described the cir- 
cumstances under which his conversion was brought 
about, and the motives which had brought him. to 
Paris. He concealed nothing. 

You know all that concerns me,” he added in 
conclusion ; “ you see I am innocent. I demand that 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


157 


you promptly restore me to liberty, not for my own 
sake, but for that of the three helpless women I have 
sworn to protect.” 

The judges heard him attentively ; but his asser- 
tions did not convince them. Tliey told him that 
they could not give credence to his words, 

“ Why do you refuse to admit the truth of my 
statements?” asked Daniel in a tone of the most 
poignant grief 

“ Because you bring no proof in support of your 
assertions,” he was answered. 

In fact, Daniel possessed no authentic document 
certifying his conversion and his profession of Chris- 
tianity. The judges knew the hypocrisy of the Bo- 
hemians, and the audacity wherewith they covered 
themselves with the mask of religion to deceive the 
people. They treated his statements as fallacious, 
and set them aside from the defence. 

Neither did the court accept the motives whereby 
Daniel explained his coming to Paris. It regarded 
as an absurd story the carrying off of Jeanne, twelve 
years before, and even refused to order an investiga- 
tion. 

The judges thought that the accused wanted to ex- 
culpate himself by clever falsehoods, and that convic- 
tion made his situation still worse. Furthermore, by 
an unaccountable fatality, crimes committed some 
time before, the authors of which could not be dis- 
covered, were laid to his charge; numerous proofs, 
apparently conclusive, were produced. Thencefor- 


158 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


ward the condemnation of the unfortunate young man 
appeared inevitable. 

After two weeks of trial and deliberation, Daniel 
was brought before his judges to hear his sentence. 
He was condemned to capital punishment. ^Noonday 
was ringing from the great clock of the palace, and 
the sentence was to be executed at the same hour 
on the following day, on the gibbet of Montfaugon. 

The young man did not tremble on hearing this 
terrible decree, which cut short his blameless life in 
the flower of his years. He oflered to God this great 
trial, and submitted as a Christian to the blow that 
struck him. 

Remanded to prison to await the hour of execu- 
tion, he asked for a priest, and they promised that 
one should be brought. 

An hour had scarcely passed after Daniel’s return 
from the court, when the door of his dungeon opened. 
He expected to behold the minister of Christ, and 
was preparing to welcome him; but his surprise 
equalled his joy on perceiving Jenny and M6r)?em, 
his adoptive sisters, supporting between them his 
aged grandmother. The two girls advanced, all in 
tears. 

“You here !” he exclaimed. 

“ Brother, we have heard of your sentence,” an- 
swered Jenny in a voice choked with sobs. 

“ What ! so soon ?” 

“ Did you think we had forgotten you ?” 

“ Oh no ! I never imagined such a thing.” 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


159 


“We followed your trial with the greatest anx- 
iety.” 

“ Alas ! men have refused to admit my innocence. 
I die the victim of the crimes of my race, although I 
never had any part therein.” 

“At the news of this fearful sentence,” said Jenny, 
“ we asked and obtained the favor of seeing you for 
the last time.” 

“ May ye be ever blessed, O my beloved sisters, 
for your unfailing affection: it consoles me in the 
midst of my misfortunes, and I will die with less re- 
gret, since it has been given us to see each other 
again.” 

“ Why, oh why,” said M^ryem, her face bedewed 
with tears, “ must we lose you without your having 
done anything to deserve such a fate ?” 

“Would you rather I should die guilty?” replied 
Daniel with a sad smile. “ Let us remember all the 
sacred teachings of religion ; let us welcome the di- 
vine hopes it holds out to us, and whilst separating 
on earth let us not forget that in heaven we shall 
meet again.” 

For two hours did those sorrowing friends dis- 
course together on this consoling topic. They thus 
escaped for a while the poignant anguish of the pre- 
sent, and renewed their courage by the assured pro- 
mises of religion. 

At last they had to separate, and it was a heart- 
rending scene. 

“ What is going to become of you, poor sisters ?” 


160 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


murmured Daniel; “who will protect you when I 
am no more ? who will provide for your wants ?” 

“ Pray to God, brother, that He may soon call us 
to Himself,” answered Jenny in a choking voice, 
“ What shall we do in this world without you ?” 

“Forgive the wandering of my grief,” said the 
prisoner ; “ I afflict when I ought to encourage you. 
The Lord, who always proportions His graces, and 
His assistance to the trial, will not abandon you. 
We have in heaven a Father who loves us ; He will 
cover you with His Almighty arm.” 

Jenny and Meryem, unable to utter a word, held 
out their hands, which he pressed to his heart Then, 
having kissed the white hairs of his grandmother, he 
pointed to heaven, as their final meeting-place, and 
said, “Farewell! farewell!” 

The jailer would allow these unfortunates to re- 
main no longer together; he pushed the girls and old 
Marah out of the cell, and the door closed heavily on 
the condemned. 

Daniel threw himself on the damp straw which 
formed his bed, and wept long and freely. Then, 
kneeling down, he prayed with fervor, and that fer- 
vent elevation of his soul to God refreshed, consoled, 
strengthened him. When he arose, he had renewed 
in the depth of his heart the cruel sacrifice of his 
life. He calmly awaited the arrival of the minister 
of God. 

The priest did not come till evening. He was a 
Franciscan friar. His venerable air, the mildness of 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


161 


his look, the sauctity that shone on his face, immedi- 
ately won him the sympathy and confidence of the 
condemned. 

This monk, whom the reader already knows, was 
called Father Grambert, and he was often sent to 
visit prisoners. 

The servant of God having seated himself on a 
stone bench, which likewise served as a couch for 
the condemned, Daniel knelt down, confessed his 
faults, and received the sacrament which eflaces them 
by the virtue of Christ’s blood. 

Father Grambert, touched by the faith and piety 
of the young man, remained long with him. It was 
night when he arose to leave him. 

“ My son,” said he with ineflable tenderness, “ I am 
obliged to leave you, but I will see you again to- 
morrow morning.” 

“ Permit me. Father, to ask a favor of you before 
you leave me.” 

“ Speak, friend ! be sure that I will do my utmost 
to fulfil your last wishes.” 

“ There is in this city,” replied the young man, 
“ an aged woman, my grandmother, and two young 
girls, my adoptive sisters, whom my death will leave 
without comfort or support.” 

“ Are the young girls connected with you by the 
ties of blood ?” 

“No, Father.” 

“ By what title, then, do you interest yourself in 
them ?” 


162 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ I was brought up with them, and long believed 
them to be my sisters.” 

And the condemned related briefly to the monk 
the events which make the subject of this tale. Ac- 
cording as Daniel advanced in his narrative, Father 
Grambert gave signs of strong emotion. When the 
young man came to speak of Father Hermanfred, the 
friar exclaimed : 

“ I know him well ; he is my intimate friend, and 
endowed with the most eminent virtues.” 

Daniel went on, and repeated what Judith had told 
him on her death-bed. 

“ Great God !” interrupted Father Grambert, “ is it 
possible !” 

The prisoner not knowing what meaning to assign 
to this exclamation, and interpreting it as a doubt, 
resumed in sorrowful accents : 

“Father! I tell the truth. What would it avail 
me to tell a falsehood in these last hours of my life ?” 

“ My son, I am very far from disputing the truth 
of your recital. You did not understand my reason 
for interrupting you. Not only do I believe you, but 
I am in a position to corroborate your statement.” 

Daniel, stupifled, regarded the friar without answer- 
ing. 

“ I partly know the facts which your mother re- 
vealed to you on her death-bed.” 

“ Who could have made them known to you 1” de- 
manded the young man, more and more astonished. 

“ I heard years ago of the carrying off of a little 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


163 


girl in the way you mention, and it can he no other 
than one of your adoptive sisters.” 

“ The ways of Providence are mysterious,” mur- 
mured Daniel. 

“ Say rather that they are adorable.” 

“ You know the parents of the child ?” 

“ Perfectly. Her father is called Etienne Belval, 
and he dwells in the village of La Chapelle.” 

“I will leave this world in peace,” said Daniel, 
raising his eyes to heaven with an expression of in- 
finite gratitude, “since my sisters are henceforth 
secure of safe protection.” 

“Why speak you of dying?” said Father Gram- 
bert ; “ the communication you have made me will 
save your life at the same time that it restores happi- 
ness to a virtuous family. Rut let us not lose time ; 
we must first think of you.” 

“ What infiuence can these facts, which I have al- 
ready made known to my judges, have on my fate ?” 

“ Do you not understand ?” 

“ I confess I do not.” 

“ They will enable me to prove your innocence and 
the sincerity of your professions.” 

Immediately, without answering the multiplied 
questions of Daniel, the friar hastily quitted the cell 
and ran to the judges. Notwithstanding the ad- 
vanced hour, and thanks to the veneration of which 
he was everywhere the object, he succeeded in seeing 
the principal one amongst them. He told him what 
had happened, and added ; 


164 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ The young man has told the truth ; he is innocent.” 

“ I know not as to that,” answered the judge ; “ but 
the sentence is passed, the king has confirmed it, and 
it is not for us to impede the course of justice.” 

“ What is to be done ?” said the monk anxiously. 

“Apply to the prince.” 

“ He left Paris to-day ; I will not have time to reach 
him.” 

“ I can do nothing.” 

“ In virtue of the authority you possess, order a re- 
prief. I have in my hands all the proofs of Daniel’s 
innocence ; let me only have time to produce them.” 

“ The king alone can suspend a capital execution.” 

“ In such a case, where there is question of the vic- 
tim of an evident judicial mistake, every honest man 
ought to be disposed to take a responsibility.” 

“ That is your opinion ?” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ It is not mine.” 

“ You refuse me, then ?” 

“We cannot change a sentence regularly and for- 
mally given.” 

“ So you are not afraid,” replied the indignant 
monk, “ to allow an innocent man to perish?” 

“ The condemned cannot be innocent,” said the 
judge coldly. 

“ I protest he is not guilty.” 

“ And I affirm that we cannot be mistaken.” 

“ Accursed be your pride,” exclaimed Father 
Grambert. “ Sooner than admit that human justice 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTERY. 


165 


is fallible, you would commit a judicial murder. 
Your heart is as hard as stone, and I cannot hope 
to soften it. God will do what you refuse. But, 
know that I will demand justice against you, and ob- 
tain it.'’ 

With these words the holy monk retired. Nothing 
remained for him but to see the king. But Charles 
VII. was on his way to one of his castles in the pro- 
vinces. Now, how was he to get speech imme- 
diately of the Prince ? 

Whilst Father Grambert was revolving these diffi- 
culties in his mind, an idea suddenly occurred to him : 
he thought of George Hdrielle, his old friend, and 
the king’s goldsmith. He plunged immediately into 
the heart of the city, where his friend resided, and 
briefly told him the aflair. 

“I want you to help me out of this dilemma,” 
added he. 

“ What is to be done,” demanded the goldsmith. 

“ Mount your horse instantly, for time is precious, 
and a man’s life is at stake ; ride as fast as you can 
after the king ; when you overtake him, see him im- 
mediately, obtain a reprief for Daniel Eschol, and re- 
turn to Montfaugon before noon to-morrow.” 

“It is difficult, not to say impossible,” replied 
George. “ Still, I will spare nothing to succeed.’" 

“ You will bear in mind,” said the friar, “ that the 
man we are trying to save can alone give us any use- 
ful information concerning the daughter of our friend 
Belval.” 


166 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


The friar had scarcely finished when George Herielle 
ordered his horse to be brought, jumped into the 
saddle, and traversed at full speed the streets of the 
metropolis. Soon he had gained the country, and 
dashed at a gallop along the road the king had 
taken. 

hText day, at eleven o’clock, the goldsmith had not 
returned. Then a doleful train issued from the gate 
of the Chatelet, wound along the public road, and 
directed its course towards the gibbet of Montfaugon. 
The magistrates who had condemned Daniel marched 
at its head ; then came a troop of sergeants-at-arms, 
in the midst of whom was seen the prisoner, assisted 
by Father Grambert. The latter looked troubled 
and anxious. The monk knew well that there were a 
thousand chances to one that the reprieve would ar- 
rive too late : an hour only remained to the victim. 

The monk had vainly renewed his application to 
the magistrates ; again he was sternly refused, and 
the order was given to march. 

Daniel advanced, his head erect, his step firm, as 
became innocence. The crowd which followed him, 
although animated by an implacable hatred of the 
Bohemians, appeared touched by his Christian resig- 
nation and noble attitude ; it had welcomed with joy 
the announcement of his pardon. 

At the appointed hour the funeral train appeared 
at the place of execution ; the gallows was ready, and 
the hangman at his post. Father Grambert threw a 
long and inexpressibly anxious look on the way by 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 167 

which George Herielle was to approach ; hut no sign 
of him appeared. 

Then the friar besought the magistrates once again 
to grant a delay, were it but for an hour ; his en- 
treaties were disregarded. The monk, hoping no 
more but in God alone, pronounced the final absolu- 
tion over the victim’s head, received his recommenda- 
tions, and handed him over to the hangman. In a 
few minutes the executioner had passed the rope 
around Daniel’s neck, and prepared to launch the un- 
fortunate young man into eternity. 

There was a moment of solemn expectation, during 
which Father Grambert and his friends again searched 
the horizon with poignant anguish, but without per- 
ceiving anything on the road. 

Twelve o’clock sls-uck ; it was the signal. The 
hangman seized the end of the cord fastened to a 
pully, and when the last stroke sounded on the bronze, 
he hoisted the condemned into the air. A cry of in- 
tense, inexpressible grief burst from the friar. 

All at once a mighty clamor was raised, and all 
eyes were turned to the high road. In the midst of 
a cloud of dust a horseman dashed with headlong 
speed towards the gallows, waving in his hand a large 
parchment. 

“ It is the reprieve !” cried the crowd ; “ hasten to 
cut the rope !” 

The magistrates remained motionless. But a sol- 
dier, more humane than these stony-hearted function- 
aries, cut the rope with his halberd, and Daniel fell 


168 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


to the ground ; another soldier hastened to loosen 
the fatal knot, and the prisoner s struggles ceased ; 
he recovered his consciousness, cast an astonished 
look around, and succeeded in raising himself. He 
was on his feet by the time the horseman stopped 
near the foot of the gallows. 

It was, indeed, George Herielle, bearing in writing 
the royal order to postpone the execution. The judges 
withdrew disconcerted, muttering that such a thing 
was never seen, and that it was a crime against just- 
ice to obstruct its course. 

Daniel thanked his deliverer, pressed the friar’s 
hands to his lips and heart, bowed his gratitude to 
the sympathizing crowd, and was conducted back to 
prison. 

Providence had interposed in a most signal manner 
on behalf of the innocent. 



THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


169 


XIX. 

UNDER THE FAMILY ROOF. 

George Herielle, whose arrival saved the life of 
Daniel Eschol, had reached the king sooner than he 
expected. Having had audience immediately, he 
easily obtained the reprieve, which he hastened to 
bring to Paris. 

Father Grambert and the goldsmith, after some 
moments’ rest, repaired to the prison of the Chatelet. 
Admitted to Daniel’s cell, they made him repeat 
what he had told the friar the evening before, ques- 
tioned him long and minutely, and left convinced 
that Master Etienne Belval was soon to behold his 
daughter again. 

From the Chatelet they hastened to the Rue St. 
Denis, to the dwelling of Jenny and M6ryem. They 
found them with Marah, and told them of the reprieve 
that had been granted to their adoptive brother, and 
the probability of a speedy deliverance. 

These tidings called a ray of joy to the faces so ' 
long obscured with grief. The grandmother and the 
two sisters warmly testified their gratitude to their 
generous friends. 

The monk and his companion examined at their 
leisure Jenny and M6ryem, and recognized in them 
a great resemblance to Jenny as a child. When they 
left them they had no longer any doubt ; they were 


170 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


fully convinced that they had seen the daughter of 
Etienne Belval. But there the difficulty began. 
Which of the two adoptive sisters was the stolen 
child ? How was she to be distinguished from the 
daughter of the Bohemians ? So many questions im- 
possible to solve. 

Father Grambert inclined to believe that Jenny 
was his friend’s offspring ; Herielle, on the contrary, 
pronounced for Meryem. 

“ What reason have you for thinking so ?” asked 
the friar. 

“ Her name.” 

“ The name of Jenny would rather speak in favor 
of the other.” 

“ I do not think so.” 

“ Yet Jenny is nothing more than the translation 
of Jeanne into another language.” 

“ That is precisely what inclines me towards Md- 
ryem. The Bohemians would not have been so im- 
prudent as to leave their victim her name with a slight 
change.” 

This argument impressed Father Grambert as very 
reasonable, and he adopted his friend’s opinion. 
These two friends, so good and so devoted, went 
again to see Daniel; then, having long deliberated, 
they concluded that the girls should be told at once 
of things which so much concerned them. They 
also resolved to inform Master Belval and his wife 
that their long-lost child was in Paris. 

We will leave it to maternal instinct, to Provi- 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


171 


dence, said they, to decide whether Jenny or M6ryem 
is the child of these so-long bereaved parents. They 
divided between them this gracious errand. 

Whilst George Heriellewent to the Rue St. Denis, 
Rather Grambert repaired to tbe village of La Cha- 
pelle, to the house of Master Belval. The interior of 
that desolate dwelling had not changed since Jeanne's 
disappearance : time had not softened the grief of 
the child’s parents, and they every day bewailed their 
misfortune. 

The friar entered with a joyful countenance, 
hardly able to conceal his emotion. At sight of him 
the old decrepid dog scarcely wagged his tail to wel- 
come the arrival of the family’s old friend. Etienne 
Belval, surprised at the unwonted joy that shone in 
the monk’s face, said to him : 

“ Father, you have, doubtless, received from God 
some unlooked-for favor. I give you joy.” 

“ It does not concern myself,” answered the friar. 

“ What have you, then, to announce to us ?” 

“ The confirmation of what I often promised you in 
Heaven’s name.” 

“ Speak, I remember nothing of it.” 

“Have I not many times expressed beforeyou the 
hope that you should find Jeanne again, and that the 
Lord himself would dry your tears ?” 

“ It is true; but alas ! what can the most ardent 
wishes, the kindest encouragement, do against stern 
reality ?” 

“Yet my trust in God is even now justified.” 


172 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


“ What do you mean by that ?” cried husband and 
wife together. “ Can you have any news of our 
child?” 

“ Better than that,” said the Father, smiling. 

“ Oh I for pity,” cried Belval and his wife, “ do not 
buoy us up with false hopes ! Have you learned how 
Jeanne was taken away ?” 

“ Better still than that.” 

“ What ! is it possible ? have you seen her ?” 

“ Even so ; and it will not be long till you see her 
yourselves.” 

“ Heavens I what do we hear ?” 

“ Nothing but the truth.” 

“ Where is our child ? conduct us to her, that we 
may clasp her in our arms.” 

“ Take patience, and compose yourselves, Jeanne 
will soon be here.” 

Master Belval and his wife with difficulty acceded 
tj the request of Father Grambert, who related to 
them in as few words as possible the events recorded 
in this history. 

He had just finished when the sound of steps in 
the courtyard reached the ears of the anxious list- 
eners. 

“ It is they,” cried Madam Belval ; “ they are com- 
ing with George Herielle, whose voice I hear.” 

And she darted out of the apartment, followed by 
her husband. Father Grambert went, too, and Thou- 
my, the faithful dog, dragged himself after his master 
and mistress. 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 173 

On reaching the portico, Madam Belval uttered a 
cry of joy on seeing the two adoptive sisters. 

“ My daughter ! where is my daughter ?” she asked, 
and she stopped suddenly, full of uncertainty, seeing 
the perfect resemblance between Jenny and Meryem. 
At last, unable longer to contain herself, she ad- 
ded: 

“ What matters the origin ? children, you are both 
worthy of my maternal affection. Come, then, to my 
arms ; instead of one daughter I shall have two, and I 
thank the Lord who thus makes me twofold richer.” 

Then, suiting the action to the word, the poor 
mother pressed to her heart in a long embrace the 
two adoptive sisters. 

Meanwhile Father Grambert and Master Belval had 
rejoined this happy group. Thoumy followed them, 
smelling the air, and wagging his tail. At sight of 
the girls the old dog recovered something of his 
youthful agility ; he bounded forward, brushing past 
Mdryem, and went skipping around Jenny. Strangely 
excited, he jumped upon the maiden, licked her 
hands, crouched at her feet, fixed his intelligent eyes 
upon her, and uttered a low whining cry, the only 
language whereby he could express his happiness. 

George Herielle, the friar, Belval and his wife, all 
remarked the singular demonstrations of the faithful 
animal. 

‘‘Thoumy,” said the goldsmith, “although but a 
dog, has a keener perception than we have ; he has 
recognized Jenny.” 


174 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


The good monk, the happy father and mother, un- 
derstood the force of this observation. Still they at- 
tached to it but a secondary importance, and it did 
not appear to them sufficient to constitute an incon- 
testible proof. They agreed that the two young girls, 
united by a close friendship, should not be separated 
in the welcome they received. 

We shall not attempt to describe the delirious joy 
that reigned all that day in the house of Etienne 
Belval ; such gladness is easier imagined than de- 
scribed. The fond mother, who had wept for twelve 
long years the loss of her child, went from Jenny to 
M6ryem, and could never tire embracing them, ad- 
miring them, and blessing the Lord. The smile had 
reappeared on Etienne’s lips, and he regarded the 
two adoptive sisters with a look of paternal pride 
and of ineffable tenderness. George H^rielle cord- 
ially accepted the second goddaughter whom Heaven 
had sent him. 

Jenny and Meryem were installed with old Marah 
in the Belval mansion, and were told to consider 
themselves equally at home. 

On the following day, the hearts of both girls were 
filled with the sweetest emotion, when Father Grara- 
bertbro light them back Daniel, their adoptive brother, 
their devoted friend, whom they had thought never 
to see again. Master Belval welcomed the young 
man with extreme kindness, and invited him to make 
his house his home. 

Daniel had speedily obtained his liberty. His trial, 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


175 


submitted to a new examination, had demonstrated 
his innocence. Father Hermanfred, sent for to Paris 
by Father Grambert, having made his deposition be- 
fore the new judges, the prisoner was acquitted on 
every charge, and set at liberty by the king’s order. 

Then George H4rielle denounced the conduct of 
the former judges ; not only did Charles VII. deprive 
them of their office, but he imposed a fine upon them 
in punishment of their pride and their bad faith. 

Daniel did not accept the offer of Etienne Belval 
to remain in his house. To the worthy man’s earnest 
entreaties he replied : 

“I am entirely grateful to you, but I have a sacred 
mission to fulfil.” 

These mysterious words closed Belvafs mouthy 
The young man added : 

“ Nevertheless, sir, I feel encouraged by your good- 
ness to ask a favor of you.” 

“ I will do anything that is pleasing to you,” re- 
plied Etienne. 

“You will watch over my grandmother; I recom- 
mend her old ago to your charitable care.” 

“ She shall be treated as a member of our family ” 
said Belval, and his wife made the same promise. 

Tranquil as to the fate of those whom he loved 
best in the world, Daniel took leave, eight days after, 
of his adoptive sisters. Father Grambert, George 
Herielle, and the Belval family, and departed without 
letting any one know the object of the journey he was 
about to undertake 


176 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


XX. 


AFTER DARKNESS, LIGHT. 

A TEAR and some days had passed away since the 
Belvals had their daughter restored to them. 
Etienne, his wife, Jenny, M^ryem and old Marah 
were assembled in the common hall. Every face was 
gay. The master of the house was sitting opposite 
to Daniel’s grandmother, playing with the faithful 
dog. The volery was again peopled with harmonious 
guests, and sweet-scented flowers filled the baskets 
placed before the high windows. 

Yet a shade oT sadness still lingered on the face of 
Madam Belval; she now felt the ardent desire to 
know which of the two adoptive sisters was her be- 
loved Jenny, and she despaired of ever finding out 
which was her true daughter. 

Whilst all these beings, lately so aflSiicted, were en- 
joying their reunion and their mutual affection, a 
certain tumult was heard in the courtyard ; and 
almost immediately numerous footsteps were heard 
on the stairs. At the same time Annette ran in quite 
flurried. 

“ What is the matter ?” demanded Etienne Belval, 
astonished. 

Before Jeanne’s nurse could answer her master’s 
question, a religious in a strange costume appeared in 
the doorway ; he was clothed in a white tunic, with 
a scapular, and a cape or cloak ; on the scapular was 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 177 

traced m embroidery a shield with the arms of the 
royal house of Arragon. 

“ Daniel !” cried the girls starting up. 

“ Himself,” answered the young man with a smile 
as he gravely advanced to the centre of the hall. 

After him came half a score or so of men poorly 
clad, with sandals on their feet, and staves in their 
hands. Long hair, a thick and bushy beard, gave 
them a strange, wild aspect. 

At sight of these visitors, and especially the first, 
Jenny and M^ryem turned pale and started back in 
terror ; they had recognized Lenor Eschol, Toby 
Spiller, and several other Bohemians. 

“ You are afraid of me, virtuous children,” mur- 
mured the former chief of the Bohemians in a melan- 
choly tone. And as no one answered, he added in a 
voice of supplication : 

“ Do not reject me, I beseech you. I should never 
have appeared in your presence were it not that I 
had an act of reparation tp perform. The impious 
brigand whom you knew of old assuredly deserves 
no indulgence at your hands; but he is become a 
Christian, and repents of his crimes. My companions 
and I implore your pardon.” 

Jenny and M6ryem raised their eyes to the sup- 
pliant, in order to ascertain whether he was sincere 
or not. Ldnor pursued : 

“ These men and I fell into the power of the Bar- 
bary pirates, and underwent a hard captivity. Daniel, 
always generous, succeeded in delivering us.” 


178 


THE BOHEMIANS IN 


The young man then took up the narrative where 
his father left off. After relating the negotiations be- 
tween Lenor and the Moorish captain, he continued : 

“ Hearing nothing more of the chief or his band, I 
suspected that the pirate in whom he had trusted, 
breaking his word, had perfidiously carried him to 
Africa. I resolved, then, on leaving prison, to go in 
search of him, and it was for that purpose I quitted 
you last year. 

“ In order to accomplish my design more surely, I 
entered the religious order of Our Lady of Mercy, 
which is devoted to the redemption of captives. I 
soon after set out for the African shore. After a 
patient and persevering search I found my father and 
three of his companions in the galleys of Tunis. I 
redeemed them all ; then I went to work to break the 
chains of all the other members of our tribe. Nearly 
all of them had already sunk beneath disease, fatigue, 
and bad treatment ; there remained but those whom 
you see here. Changed by misfortune, they were all 
converted on their return to Europe. 

“ Resolved to consecrate their life to the expiation 
of the past, they wished to accompany my father 
hither, where he wished to obtain the pardon of his 
innocent victims, and also that of the unhappy parents 
whose only child he had carried off.” 

“ You see before you a great criminal,” said Lenor 
Esohol, his rough face expressing the most profound 
sorrow. 

“ The happiness which Heaven gives us now,” said 


THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 


179 


Etienne Belval, “ amply compensates for the cruel 
grief we have felt for years long. So we forgive 
you.” 

“ Be you blessed for such mercy,” exclaimed the 
Bohemians. 

“ I make one condition,” said Belval. 

“ What is it ?” 

“ That you tell us truly all about the stealing of 
Jeanne.” 

L6nor willingly complied. 

What was your object in causing us such cruel 
grief?” inquired Belval again. 

“We had lost our king and queen when we came 
to La Chapelle ; my wife and I had inherited their 
power, and they had left us two daughters, Jenny 
and Mdryem. Jenny fell ill, and died some days 
after our arrival in this village. This loss was a seri- 
ous one to us, for we only governed the tribe in the 
name of these two children: our authority was in- 
secure, and we feared lest they might accuse us of 
making away with the child. I resolved to replace 
her. I saw Jeanne; her resemblance to Jenny struck 
me, and I took her away. In the course of time my 
power was secured, and I only thought of turning 
to account the two young girls, who were wont to 
consider themselves as my offspring.” 

“ In that case,” interrupted Madam Belval, “ it is 
Jenny who is my daughter ?” 

“Without any doubt. Besides, I can give you 
another proof : the daughter of our king bears on her 


180 


THE BOHEMIANS. 


forearm a slight purple mark, peculiar to the mem- 
bers of the tribe ; Jenny has it not.” 

The fact was immediately verified, and it remained 
certain that Jenny was, indeed, the child stolen from 
the landit fair. 

By this time Father Grambert and George H6rielle 
had arrived, and great was their joy on learning what 
had happened. 

Daniel had not yet taken the solemn vows of the 
Order of Mercy, and the Belval family insisted on 
keeping him with his father, but they refused. The 
young man, L6nor Eschol, and three of their com- 
panions, finally entered the Order of Mercy, in which 
they took the three vpws of poverty, obedience, and 
chastity, to which they joined that of devoting their 
own persons, and if necessary remaining in chains, 
for the redemption of captives. 

Marah lived some years yet in the hospitable house 
wherein she had found an asylum. Meryem, adopted 
by Master Etienne Belval, remained the sister and 
companion of Jeanne, who never ceased to love and 
cherish her with the tenderest affection. 





► 









v^' ^ v^ ' 

♦ _oSS\v ^ 

' ‘>^ V 

/n r\' 






■’'^A v^' = 

j.o=u. ">• 

<i'. . 0 ^ 

W ^ r-. <l ^ 

r- V. 


// 


c^ ✓ <» 

,% ■'~“ > 0 ' 


« <■ r 


^ -w- '■i^' iX' 

'o ''^ 7 ^'' ‘<7 

0 “ ‘ * -^o/** , 0 '^ .• 

^ O i . - 

✓ 








r 


H ff 0 ^ 


' ‘w V 

f..™. ^ 

' .''j'^ <•, * ' 0 . •. * /\ 

<P^ . 0 N 0 ^ ^ ^ 

»'' r-SS>(\ ^ ’-^ 



. •✓*■ ^ ^"Ki^^Psay V^ <7' 

- - -i . y^WS^ x .V 

y ^ I .*'\ O ^ / c ^ aG ^ 

’ .A\\ 



^ 0 To^' 




V . 


■^'^- ■% \W.^- .,v^' 

'''/ .' ' • . ^ V' ‘“1." ' ”' 

r^ zv^ ^ ^ i> ^ 



y 

c^V 

ih' \ x;y 


'> s; 0 

^// 

y 

^ « '>0 

\ 

x'is 

^ C-'^ 




^ /• 0‘ 

^ ,n\X^9 /A. c 


N ^'5-' ^ 

i> rp* 

V s ^ ^ 

J’.V '^' .V, 

Z Z 






^ 0 x < \ 

« p,0 i- 


V"^ 

^ <?' -»V» 



\\-’ s<^0 / "«z "c* 

j *0 « 

'V .^Pi-^ -J 



, .V V 


r" 


>' ° <■ ^ ^ ' 

■''i? O ^ 

^ oT’o’”'*®’ '^°'t- ^* ' ' '"'.^s--'’ -y' '" 

O- ^ N oV „ X li 0 ^ 'r. \- . ^ 

« ^ J^\ 'i^?5 Z-, 't/*. .Vv’' 

* 0> '^, 



O a K 



